


Signs on the Road Home

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Criminal Behavior, Drama, Eventual Mike/Harvey, Eventual Smut, M/M, Post-Prison, Re-entry Difficulties, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, aftermath of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike has served his full sentence in prison and is returning home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know I’m being very bad posting this, with three other WIP’s already out there. (I’m working on them all, I promise.) This story idea has been percolating ever since Mike’s first brush with the law back in S3. After the S5 mid-season finale, the “What If?” goblins got the better of me.
> 
> Fair warning – I honestly don’t know how long this is going to be, or how often it will be updated. Also, I went ahead and rated it as explicit, but it may be a while until we get to the smut. And I’ve hinted in the first chapter about some shit that went down in prison, but it’s quite vague.
> 
> The title was originally going to be “Someone You’d Admire,” which is a Fleet Foxes song with the following lyrics:
> 
> After all is said and done I feel the same  
> All that I hoped would change within me stayed  
> Like a huddled moon-lit exile on the shore  
> Warming his hands, a thousand years ago
> 
> I walk with others in the yearning to get out  
> Claw at my skin and gnash their teeth and shout  
> One of them wants only to be someone you'd admire  
> One would as soon just throw you on the fire
> 
> After all is said and after all is done  
> God only knows which of them I'll become

Mike noticed the first sign about a mile into his walk: "PRISON AREA. DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS."

No problem there. He preferred to walk, to feel the cool, sharp breeze against his face. Even the massing clouds weren't a concern. Let it rain, as long as he could continue his long, steady strides away from Altona Correctional Facility.

He'd been processed out first thing after breakfast, given his "gate money" consisting of fifty dollars cash and a bus ticket to Manhattan. Since his arrest and conviction had occurred in Manhattan, the CO explained, that's where they were sending him. He could have waited for the twice daily shuttle to take him to the Greyhound station in Plattsburgh, but the newly cynical part of him -- the part that had learned not to hope and never to trust -- still feared they would change their minds, or discover that his release had been a mistake.

The twelve mile walk to the station, he'd calculated, should take between four and five hours. At a brisk pace, with no breaks, he could figure on just making the noon bus. He had no watch, and no real way to gauge his progress, but he didn't care. He was out. After three years and nine months, he was free. Free- _ish_.  

Of course he was glad to be out, but his release was nothing to celebrate. He'd re-entered the world both broke and broken. He was just shy of his thirty-first birthday, but he felt closer to fifty.

******

The second sign screamed the same words of warning, but had added another sign underneath depicting a hitchhiker's thumb within a red circle, slashed diagonally with a thick red line. In place of the thumb, he imagined his own face.

Mike pulled his "new" jacket more closely to his thin frame. The clothes for which he'd exchanged his prison uniform had likely come from a thrift shop, and smelled of mothballs and mouse turds. They marked him as exactly what he was -- a newly released criminal. No cars slowed down as they passed him, although a few horns blared, causing him to startle. One driver actually rolled down his window as he sped past, and yelled something unintelligible at Mike.  He kept his gaze on his second-hand sneakers, watched them scuff through the loose gravel on the shoulder of the two lane highway.

A dog joined him for a while. Mike ignored the shaggy black mutt for at least a mile, until the third sign appeared – the same cautionary words, and the full silhouette of a man in a slashed red circle. The dog whined and Mike relented, offering it a hand to sniff. It apparently didn't like what it smelled, or perhaps had noted the similarity of Mike’s slender form to the figure on the sign. After one cautious snuffle, Mike’s furry shadow backed away and raced off the way it had come. Mike tried not to be offended by the rejection. In the dog's place, he'd probably have done the same.

******

As Mike tramped along, rhythmic and brisk, he repeated to himself on a continuous loop in his head: _it’s over. I’m free. Ish._ He wondered how long it would take for it to seem real.   Even now, he half-expected to be apprehended and hauled back, with years tacked onto his sentence. No alarms sounded, though. No shouts rang out behind him. He received a few honks, probably meant to harass more than anything.

He'd hated everything about prison, but now that he was out, part of him almost missed the sense of enclosure, the predictability, and even a few of the tricky friendships he'd managed to cultivate.

He'd survived the first few months behind bars with three trips to the infirmary. His wide-eyed, shell-shocked look made him a target, he was later informed. His too obvious vulnerability brought out a sort of pack aggression. A quick learner in everything in life up until now, he'd been maddeningly slow to learn how to protect himself on the inside.

If there was a master blueprint somewhere, listing all of the cliché sorts of assault to be feared in prison, Mike could have ticked off every single one of them. He might have fought back, but he'd never been a fighter -- not an effective one anyway -- and no one had ever taught him how to defend himself. Isolated and besieged, a month into his incarceration he began to consider exit strategies which had nothing to do with escape or parole.

Things had begun to turn around when one of his cellmates discovered his encyclopedic legal knowledge. Overhearing a conversation about an upcoming appeal, Mike emerged from the dull apathy to which he'd retreated, long enough to blurt out legal advice which seemed obvious to him, but had apparently not occurred to the shitty attorney handling the case. After that, word got around about the amazing legal prodigy hidden inside the thin, battered ghost he'd become. One of the major factions sponsored him and offered him protection. No one touched him after that, not without consequences.

He had to be careful with his consultations. The reason he was in there, after all, was because he'd dared to practice law without a license. "Clients" were only allowed to approach him on the sly, in the yard, out of earshot of any CO's. He accepted cigarettes as payment, because they were the ready currency of the place. He'd smoke one here and there out of boredom, but used the rest to acquire a few of the little niceties previously denied him: decent soap, shampoo, underwear that fit, a new mattress for his bunk, quality fresh fruit, newly published novels, and a small, sharp knife for protection.

The need for the knife had nearly vanished by the end of his first year. Bodyguards accompanied him everywhere. By the end of his second year, he'd become friends with some of them. No one called him Mike. Everyone referred to him as Jack McCoy, or rather Jackmacoy, all one word, emphasis on the first syllable. When the nickname first came to his attention, he tried to protest that McCoy had worked for the other side, and seemed to lose his cases more often than not. The name stuck regardless. A generation or two earlier, he might have been known as Perrymason, but Jackmacoy wasn't too bad. At least he hadn't been saddled with Franklin. Or Bash.

******

The bus to New York City was still idling in front of the bus station when Mike limped into Plattsburgh. He'd expected some trouble with the ticket, simply because everything so far had been too easy. The driver didn't bat an eye, though, and allowed him on board with a short nod. Suspicious eyes, he noted, tracked his movement down the aisle in the rearview mirror. He found a window seat and sank into it, slumping down as far as he could in an effort to make himself invisible.

The trip took over six hours, with numerous stops along the way, and they didn't get to the bus station in New York City until after seven p.m. He'd been given a list of transitional housing available in the area, and decided to check out one on the Lower East Side that looked promising. He wasn't about to waste his precious funds on cab fare, and couldn't stomach the thought of taking the subway, of being crowded and hemmed in underground with strangers.

He broke one of the twenty dollar bills at a deli, settling for two cookies and a small coffee because the sandwiches were too pricey. Then he had to find someone willing to point him in the direction of a bus stop on a route that would take him close to his goal.

A full two hours later, he arrived on the doorstep of New Hope House. By then, it was after nine-thirty and the front door was locked. He rang the bell, and knocked, and finally a harassed-looking man peeked out past the chain on the door to tell him he would have to come back in the morning.

"But -- " was all he got out before the door shut firmly in his face. "Shit." The temperature was dropping, rain still threatened, and he had nowhere to spend the night. He had no clue whether there were any shelters nearby. The way his luck was going, they'd already be filled for the night by the time he located one.

He stood on the sidewalk, hands on hips, reviewing his options. Find a park? Hunker down inside a dumpster? Spend more of his precious funds at an all night coffee shop? Finally, he settled on the last, figuring he needed more than cookies for sustenance. He'd see how long he could stretch out his welcome before he was kicked out, and then perhaps spend the rest of the night walking around.

******

"Any more coffee, and you're going to float away," said the middle-age waitress -- Audrey, according to her nametag. "You sure you wouldn't rather have some juice? Or a nice root beer float? You could afford to put on a few pounds, sweetie."

Mike gave her a rueful smile. She was a nice lady, and he wished he had enough money to buy everything on the menu, and leave an extravagant tip. "Kinda low on funds," he mumbled, and pushed his half-empty mug in her direction for a refill, dredging up a smile.

She nodded, as if she understood. "A few days until the next paycheck, huh? I hear you. I know you didn't ask for any advice, but you could save some money by eating at home."

If he'd been less tired, less jittery from too much caffeine, Mike would have simply nodded agreeably. Instead, he gave a hoarse laugh, and said, "No paycheck and no home to go to," and waited for the figurative boot to his ass.

But Audrey surprised him. "Oh, you poor thing," she said, filling his mug to the top with steaming coffee. "That must be so difficult. How long have you been out of work?"

Mike didn't want to be having this conversation. He wanted to hunch down and drink coffee until he floated away. Maybe he'd float somewhere nice...nicer than Altona...nicer than this coffee shop with the well-meaning but nosy waitress.

He could probably have lied, played on her sympathy so that she'd let him hang out there all night, and maybe wangle a free slice of pie in the bargain. He'd had enough of lying, though. When the judge had pronounced him guilty, he'd promised himself he'd never tell another lie. Looking Audrey in the eye while he told her the truth proved too much, however.

He kept his eyes glued to his hands, which were wrapped around the coffee mug, and said in a clear voice, "I just got out of prison this morning. My bus got in late, and I missed the deadline for registering at my transitional housing. I'm sitting in here, trying to stretch my tuna sandwich and one cup of coffee into a few hours, so I can postpone the moment when you kick me out and I go and try to find some place to stay out of sight until the sun comes up."

After several seconds of silence, he chanced a quick glance up at her. What he saw in her eyes made him want to cry for the first time in three and a half years, because instead of fear or scorn, they were filled with kindness and compassion.

"Sweetie," she said, "you stay here as long as you like."

******

Mike ended up staying until the first hint of morning appeared outside. Customers came and went all night, some chatting and joking with Audrey, none of them paying any attention to the twitchy ghost in the corner booth. He made use of the restroom, and then when Audrey had her back turned, he pocketed all of the crackers and sugar packets on the table, counted out what he owed plus exactly fifteen percent for a tip, and slunk out into the awakening city.

He estimated that he still had three hours before New Hope House would admit him -- if they even had a bed available. So he started walking, reasoning that staying in movement would both keep him warm and draw less attention to himself.

He walked with his eyes down, avoiding eye contact, and told himself that his path was entirely random. After an hour and a half he found himself in a familiar area, and realized that Pearson Litt was only three blocks west. He pictured it in his mind -- the coffee and bagel cart out front, the exquisitely attired lawyers and bankers and the rest of the type A overachievers, charging off the subway, or out of cabs and town cars, shoving onto elevators and settling in for eight, or ten or twelve hours and more, earning more money for people who already had more money than they knew what to do with.

He'd been a part of that world, part of that clawing, brawling mob of well-dressed workaholics. That's what he'd wanted to believe, anyway. But hadn't he just been the pathetic outsider, desperate to be named one of the inner circle? No one could mistake him for that in his current circumstances. He'd remain on the outside now and forever.

He knew he should turn around, leave and never come back. If he ran into one of his former co-workers, he’d likely combust into a ball of toxic flames from the utter humiliation. Not that he’d be recognized, not easily anyway, with his full beard and long, unkempt hair. In fact, as he thought about it, he realized that his appearance was the best camouflage he could have devised. He didn’t look any different than the small army of wild-eyed Manson-lookalikes already roaming the streets.

Still, the chance remained, no matter how minute, that he’d be spotted, and forced to endure an awkward reunion, and the inevitable interrogation, and worst of all, the same crushing _pity_ he’s seen in their eyes – in Harvey, and Donna’s eyes – at his sentencing. Rachel had not had the courage to show up for that. He couldn’t blame her, but it had hurt just the same, as had the absence of Jessica and Louis.

Disliking this little walk down memory lane, Mike turned his back on the sleek, dark building that threw its shadow over the entire block, and started the long trek back to New Hope.   Which … _Worst name ever._

 

******

 

Harvey had a buddy who volunteered for the New York Department of Corrections, who had access to prisoner release dates, and who owed Harvey a favor. He’d known Mike’s release had to be coming up soon, and a week ago his buddy came through for him, texting him the date and approximate time of Mike’s release.

Mike was set to get out on the Tuesday after Labor Day, and Harvey’s calendar for the day was full. He had Gretchen cancel everything. He could do that. The name of his firm was Specter Law, after all, which literally meant that his word was law, something which, in his quiet moments alone, caused him to smile bitterly into his glass of Macallan 18.

His first sign that things would not go smoothly that Tuesday, was when the cab dropped him off at the car club at 6 a.m., and he discovered that the Lexus he’d reserved had been returned with some kind of electrical glitch, which would take an hour or two to correct.

“Fine.” It wasn’t fine, but he judged it was too early in the morning to throw one of his diva fits. “Just give me whatever you have that’s ready to go.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Specter. Everything else is out. We’ll have plenty of returns later this morning, but it’s always this way around a holiday weekend.”

Harvey grumbled under his breath, but really, what could he do? Go to … _shudder_ … Avis? He considered calling Ray, but he’d already given him the day off, and it was a long drive up to Altona, which he’d just as soon make by himself.

Mike might not even be happy to see him. He’d refused all phone calls, snubbed Harvey on the two visits he’d attempted, and returned his three letters unopened. Even the funds Harvey had deposited in his prison account had gone unused. He couldn’t see into Mike’s head, and so didn’t know what prompted this complete severing of ties. He only knew that now Mike was out, Harvey was going to see to it that he wasn’t alone. Their friendship might never be repaired, but Harvey had put Mike in this position, and he would see to it that he didn’t suffer any more than he already had.

By the time the car was ready for him, rain had begun to fall in the city. Traffic was a mess, and did not improve once he’d made the maddeningly long trip to the interstate. Two separate accidents had traffic moving at the barest of crawls. The fates, it seemed, were not on his side today. This was confirmed when, a full seven hours after he had left Manhattan, he found himself arguing with one of the corrections officers at the front office of the prison.

“I left word a week ago that I’d be picking him up.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There was nothing in his file.”

“Nevertheless,” Harvey ground out through bared teeth, “I need you to tell me where he is right now.”

Looking both bored and irritated, the CO put a hand on Harvey’s arm, ushering him to the door. “He’s not my responsibility any longer, but I can tell you that the nearest bus station is in Plattsburgh. He didn’t wait for the shuttle, so he’s either still walking, is already on the bus to New York City, or … who knows? He served his full time, and he can go wherever in the wide world that he chooses. Now, if you’ll excuse me … “

******

Mike wasn’t on the road to Plattsburgh, and neither was he at the glorified wide spot in the road that called itself a bus station.   Stomach churning with misgivings and dread, the only thing Harvey could do now was turn around and head home. If Mike was on the bus to Manhattan, he’d arrive long before Harvey did, and would be swallowed up into the city, perhaps never to be heard from again. If he’d gone elsewhere … Harvey refused to entertain that possibility, because why would Mike do that?

As he drove and brooded about it, he could have kicked himself for not asking more questions of the impatient CO back at Altona. He’d call when he got home, though. They couldn’t simply dump a prisoner back into society with no help and no resources, could they? He’d call his buddy, too, and ask all of the questions he should have asked months ago.

For now, he’d simply endure the drive back. At least, this far from the prison, those ghastly signs no longer appeared at every mile marker, warning the “good” people of the world about the rejects who’d stumbled and been caught, drawing a big red circle around them to mark them as pariah, as defective and unworthy of trust.

He sighed, thinking of Mike. He’d spent his life, after his parents died, trying to erase that red circle, and to break free of that thick red slash that proclaimed him less than worthy. They’d both of them managed to ignore it for most of their few years working together. In the end, the day Mike resigned, it had become clear that he’d still felt oppressed by the struggle to fit in. He might have made it, eventually, if not for the anonymous phone call that had led to his arrest.

Harvey realized he was growling deep in his chest, just thinking about it. He’d tried to discover who the snitch had been, but their identity had never been revealed to him. He had a few guesses, but nothing he could prove.

None of which mattered anymore. Whether the kid would ever acknowledge it, Mike needed him now.   More than that, Harvey needed to be given the opportunity to get Mike back on his feet, because that was the only thing that would bring about his – Harvey’s – rehabilitation.

If Mike remained on the island of Manhattan, Harvey would find a way to track him down, even if he had to get Vanessa involved, and when he did find him, he would begin to make up for the disaster he had made of Mike’s life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind remarks on chapter one! I know this took a while to update (and the chapter is relatively short). Apologies for that. It's been a bit of a bumpy month. I'm trying to get my head on straight again, and get moving on all of my stories. Thanks for sticking around.

The sign affixed to the front door of New Hope House was made of brass, four inches high by eight inches long, and stated that application for residence could be made between the hours of nine a.m. and three p.m., Monday through Friday, excluding holidays.   Somehow, Mike had missed the sign last night. He wasn't sure of the exact time now, but the locked door suggested he'd arrived early. Taking a chance, he knocked sharply on the door and waited.

And waited.

Thinking he'd have to make a few more circuits around the large city block to kill time, he turned away, only to turn back almost immediately when the door opened behind him. The man exiting the building gave Mike only the barest of glances before striding off down the sidewalk. Mike caught the door before it swung shut, and entered.

Clean, but shabby, was his first impression, with an aroma half-musty and half lemon-scented cleaner. Near the front door, three straight-backed chairs lined one wall. To the left he could see a living room and part of a large kitchen. A few men lounged in the living room or leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking coffee or juice. They were dressed neatly, one in an ill-fitting suit, but Mike easily identified them as ex-cons. Something about their eyes and tight, defensive posture gave them away.

Directly to his right, a door stood open, revealing a small office with a man seated behind a cluttered metal desk. He held a phone receiver between his shoulder and ear while he tore tiny pieces from a bagel and popped them into his mouth, a bored look on his dark, deeply lined face. He noticed Mike hovering near the door and motioned him inside, pointing to one of the chairs shoehorned between his desk and the wall.

"Uh huh," said the man to whoever was on the other end of the phone. "I don't care. Next time check our charter. No violent offenders." He listened some more, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well, Mr. 'low risk assault and battery' practically landed my 'embezzler with a heart or gold' in the ER. An ex-con shows up at work all busted up, you think their employer is going to think twice about canning their ass? It may be a crap job, but it took him two months to find someone to even give him a chance." Muted squawking erupted from the receiver. "Fuck 'I'm sorry.' Just don't do it again."

He slammed the receiver into the cradle and eyed Mike up and down. "Who the hell are you?"

Mike swallowed nervously. "My name's Mike Ross. I was released yesterday morning."

The man gave an aggravated sigh. "You people … It's not nine o'clock yet."

Mike started to rise, not wanting any trouble.

"Sit." He studied Mike through narrowed eyes. "You're actually lucky that you got here early. A bed just opened up." He took a long drink of black coffee, which seemed to calm him. "Sorry to be so … " He waved a hand around, and up and down, as if clearing a hostile aura. "My name's Eldon Landreau." He extended his hand toward Mike, who leaned forward to shake it, but Landreau frowned and clarified, "I need your paperwork."

"Oh. Right. Sure." Mike handed over his official release papers and tried not to fidget as Landreau scrutinized them.

Landreau grunted. "Impersonating a lawyer, huh? I should have you take a look at my divorce settlement."

Feeling a stab of alarm, Mike rushed to say, "I'm not allowed -- "

"Relax. It was a joke." He read some more, then folded the papers and handed them back to Mike. "It seems you're a statistical anomaly."

"I'm a what, now?"

"I don’t see many cons come in here without at least a few months of post-release supervision. Which means no parole officer to visit. Good for you, but I'm afraid that makes you ineligible for long-term transitional housing."

"Which means … ?"

"Which means that I can give you the bed, but only until someone who is eligible applies for it. I’ll keep you off the books, and you’d best find a place to live real quick. These beds never stay empty for long."

Disappointment washed through Mike. "Okay. I guess that gives me a little time, at least."

"You want a tour before you decide?"

"Can't be any worse than where I've been for the last forty-five months."

"Then welcome to New Hope House." Landreau handed him a clipboard. "I'll have someone take you upstairs."

 

******

 

Harvey's phone rang and he snatched it up, hoping for the anticipated call from Vanessa. It was Donna's name that appeared on the screen, however. That's right. It was Wednesday. They'd kept up a once monthly dinner date, both of them determined to maintain the friendship, even with their current professional schism.   He answered the call, trying to sound normal.

"He's out," said Donna, by way of reply.

It shouldn't have surprised Harvey anymore, this annoying omniscience, but it did. "I know."

"Did you pick him up, like you always insisted that you would?"

"Ah, no. There was some kind of mix-up at the prison. I think he took the bus back here."

"You _think_?"

"He was given a ticket to Manhattan. The clerk at the bus station claims no one exchanged a ticket yesterday, either for cash or an alternate destination.   If he didn't intend to return, he's too smart not to take the cash in place of a ride."

"True. That actually makes sense. Now what?"

"Vanessa."

"Good call. If anyone can find him, she can."

Harvey tapped his pen on his desk for several seconds. "If he even wants to be found."

"He needs his family," Donna chided. "Who else does he have?"

Harvey sighed, suddenly sad and weary. “Not a single damn person."

 

******

 

Mike had been hoping to postpone this trip for a while longer. To apply for jobs, however, he needed proper identification. To get ID, he needed to fork over $14.00 to the state of New York, and he also needed documentation to prove his identity. That meant he had to get into the storage unit in Brooklyn for which he'd paid five years in advance. He had the code to the entry keypad lodged safely in his head (assuming it hadn't been changed), but he needed to collect the key to the padlock on his unit.

At the time, it had seemed that his only option was to leave the key with Father Sam. Both the court and common sense had ordered no contact with any Pearson Specter Litt (later Pearson Litt) personnel during the trial. And Trevor? Nope, Mike was done with his smug self-righteous ass. Which is why, prior to sentencing, he'd visited the priest, who made an already uncomfortable encounter even more uncomfortable when he insisted that Mike swear the key didn't unlock a cache of drugs or dismembered body parts.

Before he left New Hope, he used the cheap plastic razor from the bag of toiletries Landreau had issued to him, and shaved off his beard. It took him longer than he'd imagined, and when he was finished, the pale, haggard face that stared back at him was both familiar and strange. No longer hidden behind a thicket of hair, the amount of weight he'd lost behind bars was driven unpleasantly home. He resolved to eat more often, and bulk up.

The subway ride had him nervous and wary, scanning the car constantly for danger which never materialized. Back on the surface, he walked the familiar blocks to St. Boniface, but stood out front for long minutes, staring at the plaque near the front doors. "St. Boniface Roman Catholic Church, est. 1871." Beneath that the various service times were listed.

_Shit. This place_. He searched for a happy memory of the church, but came up blank, remembering only bitterness, angry words, and grief. His feelings towards Father Sam remained ambivalent, at best. A good man, certainly, but not an easy one. Then again, Mike thought, he hadn't been the easiest kid to deal with back then. None of that mattered anymore. Get in and get out. He stiffened his spine and walked through the door.

He found Father Sam in his office, seated behind a computer which looked remarkably up-to-date. He gave Mike a quick, distracted glance, and then his eyes widened and he popped to his feet.

"Michael. I wasn't expecting you. I suppose I never am. Has it been four years already?"

_Already?_ Mike resisted the urge to smile acidly and shook Father Sam's offered hand. "Three years nine months, but who was counting?"

"Have a seat."

"No. I can't stay. I just came to get the key I left with you."

"Of course, but why don't we catch up first?"

Another heart-to-heart with Father Sam was the last thing Mike wanted. He'd come to abhor confrontation, however, and after a long pause, he let out an inaudible sigh and sat down."

The priest, of course, was full of questions. "How are you getting on? Have you found a place to stay? A job?" And on and on.

"I only got out yesterday," Mike admitted.

"Did you? And here you are already. Did you come to make confession?"

"No, Father. I just came for the key." And really, he had confessed everything he intended to in court. The priest regarded him with a tilted head, implying that he expected Mike to say more. "I need my birth certificate and social security card so I can get a new state ID card, to apply for work."

"Ah. I see. Of course. I have it right here." He reached into his pocket for a jumble of keys and went unerringly to Mike's. When he'd maneuvered it off the key ring and handed it to him, Mike saw that a tiny sticker labeled it as "M. Ross."

He pocketed the key and stood up. He wanted to flee, but felt as if politeness dictated that he should say something more. "Thanks for holding onto it for me." He turned and took a step toward the door.

"Michael? Will you come and see me again when you're more settled?"

Mike's jaw tightened. "Probably not."

"I wish you'd reconsider. Please remember that if you ever need anything, you can come to me."

"Sure thing. I'll keep it in mind." As he said it, he was thinking, _no way, not in a million years._ "So long, Father." He left, certain that he’d never see the priest again.

***

The code to the automatic door at the storage facility was still the same, which didn't seem like great security, but whatever. Mike found his way to his eight foot square unit on the first floor and used the key on the padlock. The door creaked as he opened it, and he clicked on the bare bulb hanging above his head.

When he'd sold the apartment to pay for his (ultimately useless) attorney, he'd offered the furniture to Rachel, who had declined. Not wanting to keep any reminders of Rachel or his attorney years, he'd sold all of their mutual furniture, and donated all but one of his suits to Goodwill, along with his nice shoes and watches. They'd all been gained illegally, and he was in a purging frame of mind at the time. Now, he wished he'd held onto them to sell.

He was also regretting the sizeable check he'd donated anonymously to St. Boniface. It made no sense to him now, but at the time, his head had been in such a fog, and he'd felt as if his life was over. He hadn't thought ahead four years to when he might need a nice chunk of cash with which to start over again. Instead, he'd blithely turned it over, and at the time had felt much lighter, a feeling which hadn't lasted much beyond the moment his sentence had been handed down.

Most of the chatter he'd overheard at New Hope had centered around attempts to find employment, the consensus being that it was next to impossible even without the black mark of prison on one's record. Technically, employers weren't allowed to discriminate on the basis of an applicant's criminal past, but they could ask the question, and could always claim later that they'd shit-canned the application for other reasons. They could also legally refuse employment if the nature of the crimes conflicted with the job description. In other words, a former embezzler would not be hired on as the staff accountant, or as a cashier in a retail position.

And a former fake lawyer need not apply at any law firms.

Mike had other plans, and he stepped around boxes and old furniture to lay a hand on his Broncks bicycle. Dust coated the gunmetal finish, but it looked good otherwise. He might have to give it a tune up, but when he'd last ridden it, it had been in perfect shape, and a little grease, a couple of swipes with a damp cloth, and it should be good to go.

He rooted around some more, uncovering his messenger bag, some clothes, sneakers that fit him better than the ones he'd left prison in, and a stack of DVD's. Did people still watch their movies on DVD's? He shrugged and shoved half a dozen in the messenger bag. If he couldn't sell them, he'd donate them.

After changing into jeans and t-shirt, both of which hung loosely on him, he added a few changes of clothes to the bag and swapped the prison shoes for his own sneakers. Then he dusted off the one suit he'd kept, eyeing it critically. He might not end up needing it, and could always come back to retrieve it, so he draped it over the back of the sleeper sofa and looked around the space.

He'd been over careful when he paid for the place, plunking down five years' worth of rent. That was back when he'd had money, before his ill-conceived divesture. With fourteen months left on the rental agreement, he could probably request a refund, but what would he do with all of his stuff? Plus, after he was kicked out of New Hope, this might be an option for shelter. He'd have to be careful not to get caught, and use it only sparingly, but it felt better just to know he might not have to spend another night like the last one, hiding in a coffee shop and then wandering the streets like a stray cat.

He put on a warm coat, draped the messenger bag over his chest, and pushed the bike toward the exit. Outside, he mounted up, pushed off, and experienced a rush of freedom that felt so good his eyes teared up from more than just the wind blowing against them. Coasting down hills felt fantastic, as did light peddling on the flats. The gears worked smoothly enough. He might be able to postpone maintenance until he received his first paycheck.

He ran into trouble when he had to pedal uphill.  He huffed and wheezed, out of breath in a matter of seconds. "Shit," he gasped, wasting precious oxygen. He kept going, though. If he had to walk the damn thing, he was taking it with him.

He’d kept this idea in his head as his release date approached, that Frankie would take him back at the messenger company, no questions asked. (Or not many.) Uptown Messenger had its share of felons and recovering substance abusers during Mike’s employment there. And no one could deny that he’d been the best, the fastest, and the most reliable messenger they had ever had. Frankie actually shed a few years when Mike told him he was leaving.

He knew Frankie would welcome him back. He _knew_ it. He had to, because all of Mike’s hopes for his future had been pinned to that outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos!

Deep relief washed through Mike when he spotted the sign in the window of Uptown Messenger: "Help Wanted." For the first time, he admitted to himself how fragile his hopes had actually been, and how dependent on seeing that sign, or something like it. His tightly coiled anxiety eased a fraction. They were looking for riders, and Mike knew how long it took to break one in, and how much longer for them to become dependable. Surely Frankie would be happy to see him, and would take him back in a heartbeat.

In his pocket were his new driver's license and the social security card he'd retrieved from his storage unit. He wheeled his bike into the warehouse-like space and up to the front desk. A few messengers lounged around in tattered armchairs and at the battered table near the coffee maker, downing their first cups of the day while waiting for an assignment. Most of them were unfamiliar, but Mike recognized one or two.

Mike did not know the dispatcher/receptionist, who was on the phone when Mike stepped up to his desk. When he hung up, he gave Mike a questioning look. "Yeah?"

"Is Frankie around?"

"Not yet. Should be here in a few. You looking for a job?"

"Yeah."

"That your bike?"

"Yep."

"Great. You're hired. Fill these out." He handed Mike a clipboard with several employment forms attached to it."

"Wow. Just like that?" It seemed too good to be true. Mike had ceased believing in good luck three years and nine months ago.

"You're a warm body. Frankie said to grab any warm bodies attached to a bike. This don't mean we'll keep you, but we'll give you a try." His phone rang loudly and he held up a finger. "Go, sit, fill those out, and then bring them back to me."

 

***

 

While he waited for a delivery assignment, Mike drank a cup of coffee and took advantage of the maintenance area to do a little basic work on his bike. He greased the bearing systems, oiled the chains, levers and cables, tightened the bolts, and wiped everything carefully with first a damp, and then a dry rag. He received a few _who the hell is this guy_ glances, but nobody said anything, perhaps because he acted as if he belonged there, and obviously knew what he was doing with his bike.

It helped to soothe his nerves, doing these simple tasks, keeping his hands busy and his thoughts on something else besides worries that he was doing the wrong thing, taking this giant step backwards in life. Which was patently stupid. He’d heard enough stories and complaints at dinner last night from men who had already spent weeks and months searching for a job – _any_ job – to start the process of getting them back on their feet again. He should count himself lucky, and he did, but … He was going back to the scene of the crime, essentially. It scared him, and he tightened the final bolt so vigorously that he nearly stripped the threads.

At quarter past nine, when the place had nearly cleared out, the dispatcher called Mike's name. He stepped up to the desk to get his work order and check out a walkie talkie. Before he could jump on his bike and get going, the office door slammed open and Frankie stepped out, as bluff and beefy as Mike remembered.

"Mike Ross," he called, jogging over to clap Mike on the shoulder. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the paperwork. You're really back, huh?"

Mike nodded, hoping Frankie wouldn't ask him anything else. He did not get his wish.

"Where you been, man? I heard you finally got your law degree, and were riding high with the big dogs." Was it Mike's imagination, or was there a glint of malice lurking behind the friendly grin?

And where had Frankie even heard news of him? Had one of his messengers spotted Mike during his lawyer days and reported back to Frankie? Or had he seen the media coverage about Mike’s trial? It hadn’t been a huge story, and only garnered a few short pieces about “The Real Life Frank Abagnale” before it disappeared from public view. It was tempting now to spin a lie, but there was that promise he'd made to himself, not to mention the danger that he’d be caught in the lie and lose this chance. "Ah, I had a little trouble. Did a little time upstate."

"Time, as in ... oh, shit, kid. You're the last one I would have guessed." The smile had slipped from his broad face. "Anything I should be concerned about?" He glanced around them and bent closer, lowering his voice. "You didn't kill anyone did you?"

"No."

“Drugs?”

“Again, no.”

"Then I guess I don't give a shit. It's all good. But what are you standing around for? Get out there. Do your thing. Don't make me regret taking you back."

Mike pushed his bike through the door and out onto the busy streets of Manhattan.

 

***

 

The first two hours went much better than Mike could have hoped. He was a step or two slower than he'd once been, but did not completely humiliate himself, so that could be counted as a win.   His anxiety spiked when he was tagged for a pickup at the building that housed Pearson Litt. He'd planned for this eventuality, though, and radioed back that he couldn't make it. The dispatcher let it pass without demanding an explanation, and handed off the delivery to a different messenger. Mike had avoided a lie, sort of, but realized now that he would have to give in, talk to Frankie, and get into the reasons why that particular building was off limits for him. He could only hope that this wouldn't be a deal breaker.

His mood plummeted as he considered the effort involved in both working this part of the city and avoiding chance encounters with former co-workers. Odds were, it would happen eventually. He wanted to postpone it, at least until he looked and felt less … broken. Coming clean with Frankie might buy him some time, but the man wasn’t known for catering to his employees’ special requests. Maybe he’d make an exception for Mike.

He sweated out the minutes, waiting for another assignment, and wondering if he'd blown his one sure shot at gainful employment. Then his walkie talkie crackled with his name, and he was sent in a different direction.

He crisscrossed the streets for several more hours, trotting through lobbies, riding up and down elevators, until he was sweating through his t-shirt and gasping for breath. One receptionist even offered him a glass of water after he staggered up to lean heavily on her desk, hands and arms trembling as he handed her an envelope. Back outside, down at street level, he shivered and sweated at the same time, starting to think that maybe he should request a part-time shift while he worked himself back into shape.

A burst of static alerted him that he had another delivery, just down the block. He stood bent over with his hands on his thighs, catching his breath, before climbing back on his bike, pedaling steadily, and feeling stupidly grateful for no inclines. He locked up the bike and trudged up a short flight of stairs to the front doors of the building, pushing through the glass doors behind a trio of smartly dressed young women who looked as if they were just returning from a late lunch.

As was his usual habit with an unfamiliar address, he did a rapid scan of the building directory to verify that the floor for Spartan Investments had been relayed to him correctly. It was a strange moment, with several things happening at once. A warm prickle of awareness climbed up his spine, even before he heard his name spoken from across the lobby. In the same instant, his eyes found Spartan, drifting down one more line on the reader board to see the name, "Specter Law." The warmth turned to a chill of premonition. The air went weirdly thick. He shivered and turned, feeling as if the world had slowed and nearly stopped.

Gretchen, Harvey's assistant, stood near the elevator bay, a coffee cup in each hand. She looked just as he remembered her, her gaze as knowing and incisive as ever. Perhaps fifteen feet separated them. No plausible way presented itself for Mike to pretend that he hadn't seen or heard her. He'd never grown close to her, not like with Donna, but her presence here verified that Harvey was the Specter in Specter Law (as if there could have been any doubt).

A sound escaped Mike's lips, sharp and frantic, like the fearful whimper of a trapped animal. Fight or flight took over in the split second it took for him to recognize her. Fight had never served him well, so he chose flight. Not taking the time to think things through or dissect his motives, he turned and fled. He heard her call his name again, imagined her whipping out her cell phone to call Harvey to report the sighting.

This wasn't happening. He couldn't do it. He simply could not face Harvey, and perhaps it wasn't rational, but the thought of it sent him racing blindly for the exit. He found himself on his bike and pedaling away from the building before he even knew what he had planned to do.

It wasn’t fear that drove him now, but a deep reservoir of grief and anger. Logically, he knew they had both been complicit in the lie about Mike's degree. Harvey may have enticed Mike into the deception, but Mike had agreed to it, and had fought to continue living the lie, again and again, with each successive close call that had come their way. He’d made his peace with all of that years before. They’d both made the mistake, and Mike had ended up paying a price they both knew he deserved.

He’d been happy that Harvey had avoided the same price. They’d argued for hours, at first, when Mike was out on bail. Harvey had made noises about taking the fall in Mike’s place, or at his side, but Mike had flatly refused, urging him to keep his distance and allow Mike to make the sacrifice. Knowing that Harvey had given him his dream, when no one else seemed to care, had made Mike more than willing.

Then his sentence began, and he waited. Waited for a call or a letter or a visitor. Waited for Harvey to answer his letters, which only came back to Mike unopened. Waited for any sign or word that Harvey remembered his existence. Even as things grew progressively worse for Mike inside, he’d kept his hope that Harvey would contact him – tomorrow, next week, next month. The last time he ended up in the infirmary, he stared blankly up at the stained ceiling panels and deliberately, and with malice aforethought, strangled that hope inside his chest. In its place, perhaps predictably, grew anger and resentment, which he cultivated and nurtured until the effort grew to be too much.

Feeling nothing at all was easier. Remembering nothing proved more difficult, but eventually he’d driven all thoughts of his beautiful, complex, infuriating former boss from his mind. Seeing Gretchen brought all of those thoughts and emotions rushing back with an intensity that threatened to choke him.

He pedaled mindlessly, ignoring the blaring horns and curses of drivers offended by his heedless progress. He had no destination planned at first. Not the messenger company, where he would have to face questions about why he had failed at his job twice in one day. He wasn't ready to return to New Hope, with its mustiness and desperation. Instead, he followed the familiar road signs back to Brooklyn, adrenaline overriding his earlier fatigue. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and hear the wheeze of his labored breaths, but he kept going, kept moving, as if he could actually outrun the anger and the deep shame of his failure.

 

******

 

"Maybe it wasn't him," said Harvey again, even though it would be completely out of character for Gretchen to get something like this wrong. "It's been nearly four years, after all. Could it have been someone who happened to look like him?"

"Harvey." She used her scornful, _you have got to be shitting me_ voice, which Harvey usually found amusing, but now just annoyed him. "I'm not blind, and no, all the skinny little white boys do not look alike to me. That was Mike Ross I saw in the lobby. A little older, and a little thinner, but Mike freaking Ross just the same."

Harvey leaned back in his chair. Anyone else might have been intimidated by his ferocious scowl, but not Gretchen, which was one of many reasons he kept her around. "Why did he run from you? What did you say to him?"

"Nothing. I called his name. He turned to look at me, and bolted. I will say he looked … I don't know … scared. What of, I have no idea."

"None?" he asked drily. "Were you giving him the same look you're giving me right now?"

"Ha ha. Look, he had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and I saw him get on a bike when he left. If I hadn't recognized him, I would have assumed he was a bike messenger."

A lightbulb popped on in Harvey's mind. Mike needed a job. It made sense that he would go back to one where he had experience and connections. He wondered how many bike messenger companies operated in this part of town.

"Can you do me a favor?" he asked Gretchen.

"Call around and find out where he's working? I'd be happy to." She handed him his cup of coffee and took the other one out to her desk. He saw her tapping away on her keyboard and he went back to work, confident that if Mike was in fact working as a bike messenger, Harvey would have the name of his employer before he went home tonight.

 

******

 

“Uptown Messenger,” Harvey announced smugly over the phone to Vanessa. “He started there this morning.” He waited a beat and added, “You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For doing your job for you.”

Her soft laugh was nearly drowned out by the blare of a car horn nearby. “I’m still billing you for my time.”

“Of course.”

“So you found him. Do you need anything else from me?”

Harvey tapped his pen on his desktop. “He’s proven himself to be … skittish. Do your incognito thing and find out where he’s staying, would you?”

“Sure. I love it when I get to do real private eye, spy stuff.”

“As I seem to recall.” He smiled, remembering some of the games they’d played, back when they had been briefly involved. “Keep an eye on him and report back to me.”

“You got it.” Without bothering to say goodbye, she disconnected the call.

It was a struggle, but eventually Harvey stopped thinking of Mike and got back to ripping apart the draft bylaws his newest associate had handed him earlier.

 

******

 

It was tempting to simply stay where he was, in the dark, laying on his dusty old couch with his few remaining belongings stacked and crammed around him in the storage unit. Not a soul in the world knew where he was. The thought should have made Mike feel lonely, but it didn’t. It made him feel safe.

He couldn’t stay there forever, though. He’d heard footsteps in the hallway several times in the past two hours. The need to get up and get back to New Hope remained at the forefront of his thoughts. Eldon had made it clear how lucky Mike was to have his bed. While he still did, he needed to take advantage. The storage unit could only be his shelter of last resort.

When he finally got himself moving, he groaned at how stiff his muscles and joints had become. The ride back to New Hope through rush hour traffic stretched ahead of him like a nightmare.

 _But you’re free,_ a voice whispered inside him. _This is freedom. This was the goal._

He mentally flipped the voice off, but dragged his coat back on just the same. He eyed the box of DVD’s. The last ones he’d taken with him had netted him only fifty cents apiece, but his cash was getting low, so he opened his messenger bag, intent on stuffing as many DVD’s inside as he could manage. That was when he realized that he still had an envelope of documents which were supposed to be delivered before five o’clock – which had already come and gone.

The temptation was strong to rip open the envelope, to take a peek inside and see what multi-million dollar deal he had screwed up, or what settlement offer would go unanswered. Breaching confidentiality would only compound his mistake, so he left it unopened.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would explain everything to Frankie and beg to be allowed to keep his shitty job. He put odds in his favor at about fifty-fifty.

For tonight, he would concentrate on getting himself back to his temporary shelter and completing the chores he’d been assigned so that they would allow him to remain one more night.

 

*****

“Mike never returned to work,” Vanessa informed Harvey over drinks and appetizers after he left the office around eight thirty. “His boss was pretty pissed about it, too, and only too happy to vent after I’d persuaded him.”

“And flashed him a little leg?”

“Ah, you know me so well. He already knew about Mike’s time in prison, so I told him I was with the parole board, performing a job check.”

“Is that even a thing?”

“How the hell should I know?” She sipped her scotch, dunked a tiny fried squid in aioli sauce, and popped it in her mouth. “He’s staying at a place called New Hope House, which provides transitional housing for ex-cons. I’m not sure why he wasn’t on any official lists, but he wasn't, which is why I couldn’t find him before now.”

“Shouldn’t you be staking the place out?”

“I am, but there’s no point in staying all night. They lock the place down. No one is supposed to go in or out until morning. I’ll get there an hour before they open, and make sure Mike goes back to work. If he doesn’t, I’ll spend the day tailing him. Unless … do you have a message you’d like me to give him?”

He considered the question. He could have her tell Mike that he was looking for him, but since he’d run into Gretchen, it was probably a given that Harvey was looking for him now, if he hadn’t been before. “Tell him I want to see him,” he finally said, “to see how he’s doing.” He hesitated, then reached for his wallet, removing every bill inside of it, which amount to nearly two hundred dollars. He folded the money in half and slid it across the bar top to Vanessa. “Give him that. Don’t take no for an answer.”

Vanessa looked as if she wanted to say something, but nodded and tucked the money away in her purse.

After that, they finished their drinks, chatting idly about some of Vanessa’s more interesting cases, after which she let him vent in detail about the headaches involved in running one’s own business, with which she could absolutely relate.

As he left to head home, he couldn’t help wondering how Mike was doing, and what it was like to live in a halfway house full of former inmates. Harvey had been perhaps a hairsbreadth away from sharing that fate. During his more introspective moments over the past four years, he’d experienced guilt and more than a little self-loathing over how he had let Mike take the fall on his own. The kid had made a good case though. Part of Harvey had been proud of how Mike had learned (how he’d taught him) to argue a point and win. The rest of him had felt both steamrolled, and complacent enough to allow it

It was no coincidence that he’d begun taking on more than his fair share of pro bono cases at his new firm, as if that would atone for the guilt. By now, he knew that it never would. The only thing that would accomplish that was to make things right for Mike.  


******

 

“Jackmacoy!”

Mike looked up in surprise from his rubbery baked chicken and canned peaches, and into a face that appeared vaguely familiar. Add a scraggly beard, subtract the wide grin, and he realized he was staring at Viking, whose real name he had never known. He’d been one of Mike’s “clients” at Altona. From the welcoming smile – and his presence on the outside – whatever legal advice Mike had imparted must have been successful.

Mike shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth and gave a half wave. Undeterred, Viking plunked himself down into the chair next to Mike.

“You just get here, Jack?”

“Yeah, and it’s Mike, actually.”

“Huh. You look more like a Jack.”

“Thanks?”

Thick fingers prodded Mike’s ribs in a move probably meant to be playful, but which made him wince. “What’s with the sour face, Jack? You made it. You did your time, and here you are, back in the world.”

Mike forced a smile to his face which, judging by Viking’s grimace, only made him look more disgruntled. “Yep. Here I am.” He took another bite, swallowed it, and set his fork own carefully. “I’m beat, so I think I’m gonna hit the sack.”

He got up, heading for the stairs, and gave a frustrated groan as Viking lumbered up behind him.

“Hold up a second Jack.”

Mike turned to face Viking, who took a look around them as if ensuring that no one would hear what he was about to say. “Look, I owe you a lot, Jack. I’d still be back there if you hadn’t clued in my idiot lawyer to the law.”

“You don’t owe me. You paid me in advance in cigarettes and extra French fries, remember?”

“Yeah. Maybe. That don’t mean we can’t help each other out now, does it?”

Mike stared pointedly down at where Viking’s hand gripped his elbow, and the big man let go. “I can’t help you,” said Mike carefully, “because out here, if I get caught practicing law again, I’m done.”

“No, I get that. That’s not what I’m talking about. I know this guy who needs people. Smart people that he can trust.”

“Stop.” Mike took two steps back, toward the stairs. “Do not say anything else. I don’t want to know. I’m not doing that. I can’t go back inside and I – no. Just no.” Viking had an almost comically hurt look on his broad face, and Mike gentled his tone. “I mean, thank you though. Thanks for thinking of me.”

Viking shrugged. “Wait until you get turned down by another employer, at the fiftieth shit job you apply for.”

“Oh, but see, it’s okay. I’m working already.”

The happy smile returned. “That’s great. Good for you Jack. Just, if things don’t work out, you remember my offer, okay?”

“You bet,” said Mike, not meaning it. He finally made his escape, finding temporary refuge in the room he shared with a guy everyone called Einstein – who was not one. Not even close. It wasn’t much past seven, and Mike had the room to himself for the moment. He flopped down on the bed and did his best not to think about the fact that he’d likely already screwed himself with Uptown Messenger.

 

******

 

Mike dried the last of the coffee mugs and set it in the cupboard. He’d pulled cleanup up duty this morning, and had hurried through it, not wanting to show up late to throw himself on Frankie’s mercy. He wiped his damp hands on his jeans, thinking that he would need to find more bike-friendly clothes for work. Maybe there was a thrift shop around here.

“Ross?”

Mike looked over to find Eldon Landreau leaning out of his office.

“Yeah?” he asked, instantly on guard.

“Can I see you for a minute?”

Mike could interpret Landreau’s tone of voice, and his heart sank to his toes as he followed him into the small office. Mike didn’t even bother to sit down. “Are you kicking me out?”

“Don’t look at me like that. I did warn you. I heard you found yourself a job, though, so I’m guessing you’re going to be just fine.”

“How long do I –”

“He’s on his way here now. Be sure to take everything with you.”

Shoulders slumping, Mike nodded. All he had were his clothes and the DVD’s that he still needed to sell. Maybe Frankie would let him stash them at work until the end of his shift. He went upstairs to grab his stuff and left, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone. He hadn’t exactly made any friends in the brief time he’d been there, Viking’s overtures notwithstanding.

 

******

 

“Please, Frankie. I know I messed up yesterday. It just caught me by surprise, running into that woman. Everything feels a bit raw right now, but I’ll settle down, I promise.”

“You know what, Mike? Let me be honest here. I never did like you. You were an arrogant little shit who thought he was better than everyone else here, including me. I tolerated you because you were good at your job – one of the best. Clearly you’re not that kid anymore. I got three clients screaming my ear off this morning because you were too busy having some goddamn existential crisis to do your fucking job.”

“It was a one-time thing. I’ll do better. I can be just as good as I was before, I promise.”

“No way. Get out.”

“Please. Oh, god, please, man. I need this job. You have no idea. I’ve got no place to stay.”

“That’s funny. You put an address on your application.”

“They just kicked me out.”

“Sounds like you’re trouble all the way around.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, even as he felt the world closing in on him. “I’m a good person.”

But was that even true? Had that ever been true? He’d been a little shit to his grandmother, and to Father Sam. He’d run with a bad crowd in high school because it kept him close to Trevor. He’d cheated in college – for Trevor, yes, but he’d agreed to it. After that came the drugs, and the cheating for pay, and the grand cherry on the “good person” cake were his years with Harvey.

He thought he’d gained perspective in prison, but now, standing there in front of a man who had declared his contempt for him, Mike saw himself, who he had been his whole life long, lit up as if under a spotlight, nothing hidden or in shadow anymore. He saw, with utter clarity, the contemptible person he was and always had been.

He couldn’t blame Frankie for the look of deep scorn on his face. He couldn’t argue himself out of this one. He was a bad person, and he’d failed at life once again.

 _Thanks for the opportunity,_ he wanted to say, simply to manufacture a graceful exit and save a crumb of his dignity. His voice had deserted him, though, and he felt dangerously close to tears, so he abandoned the effort, turned his bike around and pushed it back out to the sidewalk, without even bothering to point out to Frankie that he owed Mike half a day’s pay.

His first instinct was to hide himself away from the world. His refuge though, that dusty storage unit in Brooklyn, lay so far away, a continent away it felt like, and he was so fucking tired. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink into the sidewalk and disappear forever. He stared into the middle distance, gaze unfocused, his utter stillness creating a small eddy in the river of pedestrians passing by. No one looked directly at him, he was only an obstacle to be avoided.

 _Help,_ he pleaded with the strangers. _Help me!_ he screamed inside his skull. _Someone please help me, because I don’t know what to do._

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, stuck to the sidewalk. No one heard him. Predictably, no help materialized, so he did the only thing he could. He started moving, and kept moving, directionless and without a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments on the last chapter!

“What do you mean you lost him?” Harvey gripped the receiver so hard his fingernails dug into his palm. “Wasn’t he at that Hope … New Hope … whatever?”

On the other end of the line, Vanessa’s voice remained infuriatingly calm. “Yes, he was. I watched him leave, and followed him to the messenger company. He was inside for a brief period of time, and when he emerged … Well, he seemed upset about something, but he took off, I assumed on a delivery.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “I’m afraid I made a small miscalculation.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Panic threatened to overtake him, and he fought it down.

“You do realized that’s a compliment for someone in my line of work? No? Not even a chuckle. Fine. I had no intention of trailing him all over downtown. With traffic at that time of day? And him on a bike? Not happening. So I took a different tack and returned to New Hope House. A Mr. Landreau was reluctant to speak to me at first, but I persuaded him.”

“The leg thing again?”

“No, the Benjamin Franklin thing. Turns out the state does not pay him particularly well, making him susceptible to bribery. I found out from him that Mike was staying at New Hope on a temporary, unofficial basis. Off the books. Landreau kicked him out this morning when someone else needed the space.”

“Mike needed the space,” Harvey fumed.

“Maybe, but he wasn’t legally entitled to it. He served his entire term. No parole. Therefore no post-release supervision. Basically, he’s on his own.”

“That’s ... fucked up.”

“Agreed. I asked Mr. Landreau if Mike had left a forwarding address. The answer, not surprisingly, was no.”

“Did you go back to the messenger place?”

“I did, where I spoke to the lovely Frankie. He fired Mike this morning, which explains the upset I witnessed on the sidewalk. And before you ask, he did not leave a forwarding address with Frankie either. On one possibly bright note, Mike failed to collect his pay for the half day he worked. Frankie assured me that, tough though he may be, he is fair, and would never dream of willfully withholding the wages of an employee, even a -- well, I'll spare you the specific language he used in reference to Mike, but you get the picture."

"That's just great. Now we're right back to square one. What the hell do we do now?"

"Calm down, Harvey. I have one of my associates watching the place, in case Mike shows up to collect his money. So there is that."

“What if he doesn't go back? Where the hell is Mike now?” Harvey’s head had begun to pound, and he used his free hand to massage his temples.

“Unknown. I do have a few ideas for further investigation. But the reason I’m calling, and putting up with your hysterical inquisition – ”

“My what, now?” Harvey suddenly remembered why they had decided to keep their relationship professional all those years ago.

“The reason I’m calling, is because after I spoke to Mr. Landreau, I got to thinking. Why was Mike never granted a parole hearing? He was a first time offender. It was not a violent offense. I doubt he shanked anyone in the yard. He would have been eligible after eighteen months, but … nothing. This made me suspicious. It has been my experience, in past cases, that when someone gets screwed by the system, 'the system' turns out to be some petty functionary with either a bloated sense of power, or a personal grudge against the screwee.”

“I’m losing the thread here, Van. Just so we’re clear, Mike is the screwee?”

“Correct. Care to take a guess as to the identity of the screwer? Or would that be ‘screwor’?”

He massaged harder, eyes squeezed shut. “It would have to be somebody with a pretty big grudge, which narrows it down – hardly at all. Mike pissed off plenty of clients and opposing parties during his time as a lawyer. That’s kind of the nature of the profession. I’m not in the mood right at the moment for guessing games. So tell me: who messed with Mike, and why?” He was already devising elaborate plans for revenge.

“The name of the warden at Altona Correctional Facility is Edward Finch, which probably means nothing to you.”

“I’m reasonably sure I’ve never heard of the guy.”

“Edward has a sister named Elizabeth, and Elizabeth has been married for twenty-two years to one Jonathan Sidwell.”

_And boom goes the dynamite._

“Shit. That petty son of a bitch.” He thought back to all of the times he’s called the prison, the messages he’d tried to get through to Mike, the times he’d made the drive, and he remembered all of the stonewalling he'd received for his troubles. It was too much of a coincidence. This had to be the reason he’d failed in every attempt to contact Mike. He wasn’t avoiding Harvey, he was being prevented from communicating with him. Mike probably had no idea, had not been aware of Harvey’s efforts, and believed that he’d been abandoned to his fate.

He realized that Vanessa was still talking, and with great effort, he tuned back into her words.

“There are procedures in place for filing a complaint. It won’t do Mike any good now, but Finch might be punished, if the complaint even goes anywhere.”

“Punished how?” he sneered. “A slap on the wrist? A strongly worded reprimand that changes nothing? I can’t think about that right now. What other bright ideas do you have for finding Mike?”

“I’m working on it. I still have some leads to follow up on. In the meantime, don’t give up hope. He’ll turn up.”

Harvey growled into the phone, said his goodbyes and hung up. He was considering throwing something at the wall, dispiritedly scanning his desk for a likely victim, when he caught movement in the corner of his eye. Gretchen had entered the office. “Did you hear all of that?” he asked her.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s part of the job description.” He took a closer look at her. She obviously had something she wanted to say, but he’d worked with her long enough by now to know that she would get around to it in her own way and in her own time.

“You may not know this,” she began, “but before my years at Rendell Clarke, I worked for a sole practitioner who specialized in criminal law. He was a terrible lawyer, who lost more cases than he won. And the clients … Some of them were scary as hell, but a fair number had just been caught up in the gears of the criminal justice system, ripped out of their ordinary lives to serve their time, and holding out hope that they could get through it and get their lives back on track eventually. I had a front row seat to some of the problems those people faced.”

“Is this going somewhere?”

“You know it is. See, people who haven’t gone through it don’t think of these things. What happens to all of their stuff when they go inside? They can’t pay rent on an apartment while they’re inside. Where do they keep their personal papers, and books and clothes and furniture and such? They could give it away, or sell what they could, but then they’d have to start from scratch once they got out again. If I was them, I’d want to hang on to it if I could. So where does it go?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you expect an answer?”

Ignoring his interruption, Gretchen continued talking. “If they have family, they might store it for them. They could cram it into the basement, or into a spare bedroom. If they have someone in their life willing to foot the bill, maybe they put everything in storage.” She waited, but when Harvey remained silent, she asked, “What did Mike do with all of his stuff?”

Not surprisingly, Harvey did not have the answer to that. He hadn’t had much contact with Mike during his trial and sentencing, not by choice, but by order of the presiding judge. He knew Mike had sold the apartment to pay his attorney, but didn’t know if he’d kept any of his things or gotten rid of them all. If he’d given it any thought at all, which he hadn’t, he would have assumed the latter. He held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know.”

“I’m just telling you what I learned all those years ago. Maybe it’s a lead for your lady detective. Take it or leave it.”

“Thank you, Gretchen. I appreciate it. I’ll pass your thoughts along to Vanessa.” He doubted anything would come of it. Mike had no family. If he did, that would be the first place he would have gone to find him. But after Gretchen left his office and went back to her desk, Harvey couldn’t quite banish the thought. What _had_ Mike done with all of his things?

Harvey did his best to throw his concentration back into work, but he couldn’t get Mike out of his head. He continued to obsess over the revelation that Sidwell’s brother-in-law ran the prison where Mike had been sent. Mike’s refusal to see him had never made sense. Now it tore Harvey up inside to think of Mike in prison, alone, waiting for word from anyone on the outside who gave a shit about him. He’d assumed that Mike hadn’t used the money Harvey deposited into his prison account out of spite or misplaced, stiff-necked pride. Turns out he likely had not even been aware of the money in his account.

After he found himself staring blankly into space for the third time in an hour, he snatched up his phone and dialed Vanessa’s number. When she picked up, he summarized what Gretchen had told him. She didn’t sound so sure that it would amount to anything, but finally allowed that it was a lead at least, no matter how flimsy.

“If these other threads don't go anywhere, I’ll check into it.”

“Great. Thanks. Oh, one more thing. Could you get me contact information for Trevor Evans? I think I’ll have a little chat with him.”

“Yep. I should have something for you later today. Keep your chin up, sweetheart.”

“Always,” he said, feeling marginally better, and hung up.

 

******

 

Mike's need to retreat out of view of the judging world proved strong enough to get him moving, even though exhaustion pulled at him -- despite the fact that it was barely past nine o'clock in the morning.   Like a wounded animal seeking its den, he dragged himself back to Brooklyn, making a slight detour to visit the same pawn shop he had the day before, to sell the dozen or so DVD's he carried with him. This gave him enough money to stop at a convenience store and purchase a tiny package of doughnuts, a stale tuna sandwich and a can of soda. He still had some money left over from the fifty he’d gotten upon his release, and used it to buy a cheap phone with three hours on it. He’d need it to apply for jobs.

It had grown chilly out during his ride, and judging by the darkly massing clouds, was preparing to pour, so he wearily pedaled another two miles to the storage facility and let himself in just as the first drops fell.

With the padlock off the door, there was no way to lock it. Not wanting to chance anyone walking in on him, he wedged one of the chairs from his dinette set against the door. It wouldn’t withstand the truly determined intruder, but would at least give him some warning if anyone tried to get inside.

He left the bare overhead light on while he ate, tasting nothing as he mechanically chewed and swallowed.   His dreams of gorging on pizza when he got out now seemed ridiculous and hopelessly indulgent. Just the same, his gaze roamed around the space, sizing up his belongings, trying to decide how much of it he'd need to sell for a large sausage and pepper pizza with cheese in the crust. He was reasonably sure that the pawn shop would take the small electronics, even if they didn't pay much for them.

The furniture could be sold, but that would mean posting an ad on Craigslist, which in turn meant gaining access to a computer. Plus it might take a while to find a buyer.   He’d ask a hundred for the sofa, and maybe fifty apiece for the armchairs, twenty or thirty for the dinette set – which he would only get if he was lucky. A smart buyer would haggle the price down. Even a hundred for all of the items would keep him fed for a while, if he was careful. He should visit a library, he decided. He could post that ad, and check the job listings at the same time.

Now that most of his earlier panic had receded to the background, it was easier to formulate plans, to determine what he needed to do next, figure out the steps involved, and move forward to the next thing, and the next, and the next. That's what he would do, keep taking one step at a time until he ran into the inevitable brick wall, and then figure a way to go over, or around, or under that wall -- or dismantle it piece by piece.

More likely, he thought sourly, he would try to put a fist through it and end up with bruised and bloody knuckles.   That idea held its own appeal. He eyed the walls around them, trying to gauge their strength, before shaking his head impatiently at the path his thoughts were taking. The last thing he needed was an injury of any sort.   For now, one of the keys to surviving was staying healthy. He didn’t even want to consider what could happen if he caught the flu, or a bad cold. He couldn't afford medicine, or proper food, or …

_Don't think about that,_ he lectured himself. _Just keep placing one foot in front of the other and don't look too far into the future -- or back to the past._

He was about to get up to turn off the light -- he had checked, and from out in the hallway, the light was visible under the door -- when the panda print his grandmother had given him caught his eye.   It immediately brought her to mind, and the exasperation hiding the twinkle in her eye when she'd caught him sneaking it out the door to hang on the wall in the apartment he was sharing with Trevor.

_"I never took you for an art thief, Michael." She took the print away from him and lifted it, gazing lovingly down at the panda and his clump of bamboo. "Did I ever tell you where I got this? Your grandfather gave it to me when we were dating. He claimed it was a valuable antique, dating back to the nineteenth century. I never cared for it at the time, but kept it around thinking it could serve as an emergency fund of sorts, in case of an unforeseen catastrophe. I held on to it after he passed away because it reminded me of him. After your parents died, money became tight, so I took it to an auction house to see how much it might be worth, and they laughed me right out of there.”_

_She gave her head a rueful shake as she gazed down at the print. “This stupid thing was mass produced, less than ten years before he bought it. He probably picked it up in some junk shop." Here, she'd paused to look directly at him. "You might think I would have gotten angry at him for the deception. But do you know what? I was relieved to discover it was worthless, because that meant I didn't need to let it go after all. After all those years, I’d grown to love the damn thing."_

_Her revelations had Mike feeling like a world class jerk. "Wow. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I never would have -- "_

_"Why did you?"_

_He'd shrugged. "I like it."_

_She'd smiled. "Then I want you to have it.”_

_"But Gramps -- "_

_"I'm sure he would want you to have it too. It would pass to you eventually. I’m not going to be around forever.”_

Now, in the cramped storage unit, he smiled and ran his fingers over the picture. He hadn’t believed her when she’d said she wouldn’t always be around. He’d expected her to live on and on, because he couldn’t imagined a world without her in it.

He stood up and leaned the print against the wall, where he could see it from the couch, and lay down, covering himself with his coat. There were a lot of things he couldn’t imagine back then, all those years ago. He’d never imagined he’d wind up as a fake lawyer, or that he’d be caught, or that he’d actually do time for it. He yawned hugely. His last thought before he drifted into uneasy sleep was that he should get up and turn off the light.

***

_BAM BAM BAM._

Mike woke with a jolt, immediately alert for danger. If prison had taught him anything, it was to always be aware of his surroundings. He blinked and shivered, and the loud knocking sounded again, rocking the chair that he’d leaned against the door.

”Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shitty shit.” He dragged his coat on, ran his fingers through his hair and hid the remains of his breakfast/lunch underneath the couch. As an afterthought, he spread some of his personal papers on the floor. Then he moved the chair out of the way and opened the door.

A middle-aged man in a uniform stood in the hallway, a huge tangle of keys hanging from his belt, a computer tablet in one hand, and a suspicious look in his eye. “I saw the light,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Uh. Yeah. I was just looking for my birth certificate. Gotta be around somewhere.” He motioned toward the papers on the ground. No change occurred in the man’s expression. “This is my unit,” he insisted. “Mike Ross? You can check your records. I have identification.” He pulled out his brand new ID card and displayed it.

Finally the man’s harsh look softened minutely. “I had to check. You can never be too careful, right? We’ve had a couple of clients complain about theft.   It’s hardly likely. They all had nice strong padlocks, like yours. I’m guessing they faked it for the insurance money, but that’s none of my business.” He tried to peek past Mike into the unit, and Mike let him. He had nothing to hide in there at the moment.

Something occurred to Mike. “Hey, maybe you can help me out with something. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

“Sure.”

“Is there a library around here?”

“Sure is. About half a mile west of here. Go out the front entrance, turn onto the main street. You can’t miss it. It’ll be on your right.”

“Thanks.” Mike waited expectantly for the man – Al, his badge named him – to leave.

“Uh.” Al scratched behind one ear. “This goes without saying, but you do know we don’t allow overnight stays here, right?”

“What?” Mike scoffed. “Of course not. Like I would even consider it.”

“Because I seen your login from three hours ago.” He hefted the tablet as if to illustrate his point. “Does it take that long to find one piece of paper?”

The nosy man was beginning to piss Mike off. “It's not exactly nighttime at the moment. My filing system is the worst. And it was a cold ride to get here.” He gestured to his bike where it leaned against some boxes. “I may have dozed off for a minute. Do you have a rule against that?”

“No, no. Calm down. I gotta ask these things.” He finally gave up his attempts to view Mike’s stuff, backing out of the doorway. “You have a nice day, sir.”

“Yeah, you too,” Mike answered, with a bite to his voice. He watched Al disappear down the hallway, and sagged against the doorframe. Just his luck the place had a busybody on staff. He’d have to be more careful in the future. He didn’t see how he could get around the problem of the padlock, though, but he wasn’t giving up yet. He slipped out of the unit, locked up, and went in search of the library.

***

The neighborhood branch of the library was small, it turned out, and boasted only three public computers. Two were already in use, but Mike snagged the third just ahead of a shifty looking man who had probably been ready to settle in for a nice long session of browsing porn sites. Mike ignored his grumbling and navigated his way to Craigslist. He opened an account, listed the furniture he was selling (and regretted his cheap, camera-free phone which meant he had no photographs to post), and then moved to the job listings.

What, he wondered, was he even qualified to do? He’d never worked in a restaurant, or any type of retail, or in health care, or accounting, or … his head began to pound as it dawned on him that he possessed virtually no marketable skills. In the end, he sent off replies to three temp agencies, a restaurant delivery job (hoping he could use his bike, and wouldn’t need a car), a bookstore, a phone solicitation company (probably a scam), and two outfits with vague descriptions that sounded suspiciously like pyramid schemes. As soon as they discovered he couldn’t afford the buy-in fee, they'd probably tell him to take a hike. On the other hand, he’d heard from some of the men at New Hope that the orientation meetings for these types of operations often included coffee and halfway decent snacks.

After he’d finished up on Craigslist, he pulled up Google and let his hands hover over the keyboard. _Don’t do it,_ he ordered himself. _Don’t look. It will only hurt._ But his fingers disobediently typed out the name, and moments later he was looking at the home page for _Pearson Litt_. He navigated to the attorney directory, and chided himself once more, demanding that he close the browser, leave and let the porn guy have his fun. He scrolled down the page though, all the way to the “Z’s,” before he remembered and moved back up to the “S’s.”

And there she was, just as elegant and sexy and perfect as he remembered. Rachel Sanders, she went by now. She certainly hadn’t let any grass grow underneath her feet. She’d finished law school, gotten married to Logan Sanders, and snagged the coveted position of Jessica Pearson’s own associate. _Bravo to you,_ he told her picture. _You fucking, faithless bitch._

Angry tears pricked his eyes, and he wiped them impatiently away. There was a link on the page to her email address, and he was so tempted … He moved the mouse and let the cursor hover over the link, while figurative red lights flashed above the screen: _WARNING … DANGER … DO NOT PROCEED._

This time, he paid attention to the warnings and closed out of the page. He thought about doing a search for _Specter Law_ , but didn’t believe that his heart could take two shocks like that in one day. So he finally logged out and left, conveniently forgetting that he had nowhere to go

***

Mike pushed his bike dispiritedly along the sidewalk, looking for somewhere he could sit in peace to get out of the cold. He considered turning around and retracing his steps to the library. That would take care of his immediate problem, but he’d be kicked out eventually, and he still needed to figure out where he was going to spend the night. He wouldn’t have minded feeding himself as well, but a check of his pocket revealed that he had all of three dollars and some change. He needed to sell something, but had decided after his confrontation with Al, that he should limit his trips to the storage unit to emergencies.

He had begun berating himself yet again for his cowardly behavior yesterday in front of Gretchen, which cost him his job. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks, which, unfortunately, was in the middle of a crosswalk. Car horns blared at him and he scurried across and back onto the sidewalk. He’d been so upset this morning, that he’d walked out of Uptown Messenger completely forgetting that he’d put in more than half a day’s work prior to his freak out. It wouldn’t amount to much, but he couldn’t be picky about any amount of cash these days.

He’d have to use some of the precious minutes on his pre-paid phone, but if he was successful, it would be worth it. He dialed the phone number from memory.

“Uptown Messenger. Boris speaking.”

Boris? That must be the dispatcher Mike hadn’t recognized.

“I was in there yesterday, and, um, this morning,” Mike began. “I worked half a day.”

“Yeah, I remember you. Mike Ross, right?”

“That’s right. I was wondering – ”

“Frankie left a paycheck for you.”

Mike pumped one fist in the air. “Great. I’m on my way there right now.”

“Wait, wait. Hold on.” Mike could hear him talking to someone in the background, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. “It won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.”

“But you just said you had it there.”

“Uh. I thought I did, but it turns out I don’t. So, you coming by tomorrow or not?”

Mike could feel his molars grinding together. “I guess so, if you’re sure you won’t have it today.”

“I’m sure.”

“Fine. You open at seven, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you then.”

He hung up, relieved but confused by Boris’s strange waffling. He would be getting some money though, which would get him through a few more days. Anything could happen in that time. He could get a bite on his Craigslist ad and sell his furniture. He could even get a job. It could happen, he told himself, although he suspected he might be lying to keep himself from jumping off a bridge in the meantime.

Speaking of bridges … afternoon had begun edging into evening. The rain had had taken a break, but now he felt the first fat drop against his neck. He might as well make the trip across the bridge now, before the weather got worse. Maybe that waitress – what had her name been? Audrey, that was it. Maybe she would let him spend the night in the diner again. Three dollars and change would buy him a bottomless up of coffee and maybe she’d throw in some free crackers to appease the worst of his hunger pangs. It would have to do.

As he pedaled and wheezed and dodged traffic, he promised himself that “indulgence” be damned.   When he cashed his half day’s paycheck he was going to splurge on a couple of slices of pizza.

 

******

 

“How do you want to handle this, Harvey? This might be our last opportunity in a while to know where Mike will be, and when.”

They were back at the bar, and Harvey was resisting the urge to get blind drunk, taking only slow sips from the one beer he’d permitted himself. “Maybe you should talk to him first,” he finally suggested. “He doesn’t know you, and might be less inclined to run.” Even he knew how absurd that sounded. He couldn’t shake his deep sense of apprehension, though. If he cornered Mike tomorrow morning, and Mike reacted badly, he would have blown his one chance.

“Sweetheart …” came Vanessa’s chiding voice, breaking into his thoughts. “What’s happened to the Harvey Specter I knew? The one who wouldn’t hesitate to charge face first and fists flying into any confrontation, no matter how risky?”

“Fists flying? I’m hardly intending to beat Mike up.”

“Don’t deflect. You know exactly what I mean. He may be hurting, or nervous, or there could be any number of other reasons why he took off yesterday. He’s just finished nearly four years in prison, and you need to face the fact that he may not be the same person you remember. He may have motives and triggers now which you can’t even imagine.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

She wasn’t finished, though. “And how will it look to him if you don’t even bother showing up in person? If you send a proxy, shoving money at him, as if that could make up for everything? As if that could make up for anything he’s been through.”

He sipped his beer, glowering down at the bar top. “Okay, Van. You’ve made your point. I can hardly argue with your logic. I need to get him to talk to me.” He drank again. “I want you there. For backup.”

“Backup?”

“In case he tries to run again. I need you there to … head him off at the pass, or whatever you private eyes call it.”

She laughed lightly. “At least you didn’t call me a private dick.”

“Vanessa …”

“Fine. I believe our best bet is to wait until he enters the building. You follow him in, and I’ll watch the door. I’ll have my associate, Phillip, watch the back door, in case he tries for that.” She laid her hand on Harvey’s arm, squeezing gently. “I’m guessing there won’t be any need for us. Talk fast, do your Harvey thing, and let him know that you never forgot about him, or abandoned him to his fate.”

“And if he gets angry?”

“Oh, my dear, I’m certain he’s been angry at you for a very long time. Maybe it’s time he had the chance to vent some of that anger.”

Harvey sagged a little at that thought. Vanessa was probably right, though, and Harvey would simply have to take his lumps. “I’ll meet you there at seven, then. Unless you’d like Ray and I to pick you up on the way?”

“No. I’ll meet you. Better make it quarter of, in case Mike gets antsy and arrives early.”

“Quarter of. Got it.” He finished his beer, threw some money on the bar, and stood up to leave.

“I almost forgot,” said Vanessa, touching his arm. He looked down and took the slip of paper she handed him. “Contact information for Trevor Evans.”

He pocketed the paper. “Thanks, Van. You’re the best.”

***

As Ray drove him home, Harvey considered the wisdom – or usefulness – of calling Trevor. He’d originally thought he might have some value in locating Mike. Now that they’d found him, there seemed no point to talking to Trevor. Still, Harvey was nothing if not thorough. Knowledge was power, and there were still a few blanks which needed to be filled in. With this in mind, when he got home he settled onto his couch and dialed the number Vanessa had given him.

The phone rang half a dozen times before a breathless, female voice came on the line. “Hello? Sorry … hang on a second.”

He winced at the sound of the phone being dropped on the ground, which was followed by frantic shouting in a deeper voice, and the high-pitched peal of a young child screaming out its displeasure. _“Then don’t get soap in his eyes!”_ the woman shouted several feet from the receiver. Scuffling, a series of clunks, and she was back. “Sorry,” she repeated, “you caught us at bath time. Who was this again?”

Harvey drew in a calming breath and let it out again. “I was looking for Trevor Evans. Is this the correct number?”

“It is, and this is his wife. If you’re selling something, don’t even bother.”

“My name is Harvey Specter.”

A short, weighted silence. “Oh. _Ohhh_. Is this about Mike Ross?”

Something about the woman’s voice struck him as familiar. “Have we met?”

She laughed. “Oh, boy. Have we ever. Maybe you don’t remember me. Jenny? Used to be Jenny Griffith, but it’s Evans now.”

Oh, yes, he remembered her all too well. He’d actually been stupidly jealous of her for a short while. Now he was not jealous at all, but felt sorry for her if she’d wound up tied to Trevor. “Congratulations,” he said, voice faintly sardonic. “And you are correct. This is about Mike. Did you know he was released from prison three days ago?”

“Has it been that long already? What did he get again? Four years?”

“Three years and nine months. But who’s counting?”

Silence, seasoned with more screaming in the background.

“You want to talk to Trevor?”

“Yes. Maybe you should go rescue that child from whatever atrocity is being committed upon it.”

“’It’ is a ‘he,’ and he’s only getting a bath. But I’m sure you don’t care about that. I’ll get Trevor.”

The phone clunked again, probably on a table this time. Muffled voices drifted to Harvey’s ear, and then, clear and deep, came the voice he’d hoped never to hear again. “Harvey. How’s Mike?”

“I’m not sure. He’s managed to avoid me since he got out.”

“Can you blame him?” The bite of barely suppressed anger flavored his words.

“I suppose not,” replied Harvey calmly. “I was hoping you could satisfy my curiosity on something.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you have much contact with Mike while he was out on bail, awaiting trial, or during the trial itself?” He was certain the answer to that was yes. He’d spotted Trevor in the courtroom more than once, observing the proceedings.

“We talked a couple of times. Mostly it was me trying to convince him to get right with Father Sam.”

This was not what Harvey had expected to hear. “Father Sam?”

“Our priest. From when we were kids? You didn’t know? Mike went to see him before he resigned, the same day he was arrested.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe he got the idea from me? We had dinner the night before. He wanted me to come to his wedding, but I had to tell him that I couldn’t do that in good conscience.”

The polite tone to which Harvey had been clinging evaporated. “I’m sorry. Did I enter some kind of bizarro world while I wasn’t paying attention? Where up is down and black is white? Is this not Trevor Evans to whom I’m speaking, the guy who got Mike kicked out of school, and banned from Harvard? Who nearly got him arrested for dealing pot? And who caused a couple of goons to stalk him and nearly kick the shit out of him? _That_ Trevor Evans? Because I’m having a hard time here connecting all of that with the phrase ‘good conscience’.”

“People can change, Harvey. I managed to figure that out and make my own changes before the roof fell in on me. Mike wasn’t that lucky, but that’s on you, not me.”

Feeling his teeth grinding together, Harvey forced himself to calm down. “Fine. Let’s leave all of that in the past for now. Just tell me, did Mike have any plans to visit you when he got out?”

“No idea. We haven’t been in touch since his sentencing. Jenny and I decided it was for the best, especially when we found out she was expecting. I’ve gone straight, and I don’t need any influences from my past cropping up to remind me of all that, or tempt me back into those types of behavior. I think Mike understood that.”

Perhaps, but Harvey didn’t. Apparently Trevor had an entirely different definition of loyalty than he did. He was about to make an abrupt farewell and hang up when he remembered what Gretchen had told him. “Oh, one other thing. Did Mike leave anything with you? Boxes? Furniture? Important papers?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Did he happen to mention where he might have stored those things?” If the meeting with Mike went according to plan, Harvey wouldn’t need to know, but some gut instinct told him to gather all of the facts and ammunition that he could.

“No. Well … um. I’m not sure I should tell you.”

Struggling to keep his temper in check, Harvey growled, “Trevor, goddammit. Mike is homeless. He has no job, no source of income. Do not withhold this information from me.” Silence from the other end of the line as Trevor presumably considered Harvey’s words. “Does your current employer know about your past?” Harvey asked finally, despising himself for the tactic.

“Shit,” Trevor spat out. “That’s so typical, I shouldn’t even be surprised. No she doesn’t, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. Since you apparently intend to be a dick about it, I will tell you what I know, which isn’t a whole lot. Jenny and I go to Sunday services at St. Boniface every week, and I give my confession to Father Sam at least once a month. It’s not, like, formal, inside the booth and all that. We just talk, and he lets me get a lot of things off my chest. I mentioned one time that I was worried about Mike. He told me not to worry, that Mike would come back to the church eventually. When I asked him how he could know that, he showed me a key that Mike had left with him.”

“A key to what?”

“To a storage unit. Mike never said which one, and there a lot of them around there, in the general vicinity.”

“Okay,” said Harvey distractedly. “I was just curious. Thanks.” He hung up before giving Trevor a chance to reply.

It was strange and unsettling to find out this thing about Mike that he had never known. He couldn’t recall a time that Mike had ever shown an inclination toward religion, and they certainly had never discussed the subject of faith with one another. The part of Harvey that considered Mike a friend found it curious, and interesting, nothing more. The attorney part of him was already calculating how best to use the knowledge to his advantage, should the need arise. When he realized what he was doing, he gave his head a shake of disgust. He wouldn’t manipulate Mike like that.

Or, at least not until it ever became necessary.

 

******

 

Audrey was not working that night. It was a younger waitress named Meg who took Mike’s order, and who visibly turned up her nose when all he asked for was coffee. By ten o’clock, she was stalking his booth, returning every few minutes to ask if there would be _anything else?_ Wearying of the game, he gave up and left, walking out with fifty-two cents in his pocket.

When he went to retrieve his bike where he’d chained it to the base of a sign, he found the sawed-through chain lock lying in a puddle on the wet ground, and nothing else.

Helpless anger filled him, mixing with too much caffeine and too little food. He picked up the useless lock, wondering what the fuck the thief or thieves had used to cut the falsely advertised “foolproof” device in two so cleanly. Hefting it with one hand, he hurled it into the alley behind the restaurant with all the force he had, and heard it make a less than satisfying _clang_ against the dumpster.

“Fuck,” he spat out. And then, louder, “Fuck!” Predictably none of the pedestrians nearby paid him any attention, other than perhaps walking faster and making sure to keep their eyes averted, away from the anonymous crazy guy losing his shit mere feet away from them. Feeling suddenly too visible and vulnerable, he started walking, not even paying attention to where he was going. If he looked like he knew where he was going, and had a purpose, it was more likely that he’d be left alone. He’d read that somewhere once, a long time ago.

It soon became clear that he couldn’t keep simply walking around until seven in the morning – nine hours from now. The rain had started again. He’d already deduced that getting sick was a terrible, bad idea. So as he walked he searched for a likely spot to hide himself until morning. He found himself circling the long blocks around the diner, as if the memory of Audrey’s kindness on his first night out of prison made the place some kind of safe haven, and if he kept inside its orbit, he’d be okay.

After perhaps an hour, when he was soaked all the way through his clothes, he realized he was back once again at the alley where he’d thrown the bike lock. Next to the dumpster, a number of empty, flattened boxes were stacked. He could, he supposed, improvise a reasonably dry shelter with those. He rearranged the boxes, and within minutes he had a snug little spot next to the dumpster.

He crawled inside his cardboard lean-to, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, making himself as small and compact as possible in an effort to conserve body heat. He stayed that way for an hour or two, shivering and anxious, before he finally succumbed to exhaustion and dozed off, which was unfortunate, because he didn’t hear the two men approach until it was too late.

 

******

 

Harvey had an extra large cup of black coffee waiting for Vanessa when she joined him in the back of Ray’s town car at quarter to seven in the morning. He handed it to her and let her take several sips before he spoke.

“Your guy – Phillip? – is out back already?”

“Yes he is, poor cranky little thing. I had to promise him extra to get him out of bed this early.”

“Bill me.”

“I will. By the way, good morning, Ray.”

“Morning, beautiful.”

“I like him so much,” she whispered to Harvey, loud enough for Harvey to hear.

“Me too,” Harvey replied in a normal voice. “He’s happily married, though, so we’ll both have to look elsewhere.”

Ray’s newspaper rattled as he unfolded it, turned to the next page, and re-folded it. He never looked up as he said, “I told you, Harvey, my wife says it’s fine as long as she gets to watch.”

Vanessa gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “I think I need to meet this wife of yours.”

A soft grunt from the front seat was the only response.

Harvey pulled a face at her, giving his head a tiny shake, causing Vanessa to shrug and settle back in the seat to wait.

At seven o’clock, Harvey sat up straighter, nearly pushing his nose to the window as he scanned the empty street and sidewalk. They were parked halfway down the next block, but he began to worry that Mike would still spot them, recognize the car, and bolt before they even saw him. As he considered it, it seemed more likely that Mike would go for the rear entrance, not willing to forfeit the money waiting for him, and Phillip had that covered. Why, then, did Harvey feel so nervous, as if Mike would slip away despite their best efforts?

At five minutes past, he glanced over at Vanessa, who appeared completely at ease. She was a long-time veteran of this type of waiting game, after all.

At ten past, Harvey’s stomach began to churn, and at half past he couldn’t stop the expletive that burst past his lips. “Fuck. Where is he? Could we have missed him?”

“The place didn’t open until seven,” said Vanessa. She had her phone out, and now put it up to her ear. “Phillip? Have you seen anyone back there? Okay, stay in position until I say otherwise.” She hung up and shook her head, beginning to appear worried for the first time. “Let’s give it another fifteen or twenty minutes. Anything could have held him up.” She tapped her finger a few times on the armrest on her side. “The banks don’t open until nine. Maybe he decided punctuality wasn’t necessary.”

Harvey banged his head back against the padded headrest. “I’m supposed to meet with a client at eight-thirty.” He pulled out his phone. “Fuck it. I’m going to call Gretchen and reschedule.” He felt her hand on his arm, stopping him.

“I can stay and keep an eye on things here.”

“No, you were right. I need to look him in the eye and tell him what I need to tell him. I’m not ready to give up yet. I have some calls I can make while I wait. You don’t need to stay, although I’d appreciate it if Phillip could stick around.”

“Harvey, I’m not going anywhere. You make your calls, and I’ll keep my eye on the door.”

“Thank you.” It was twenty minutes later, with still no Mike in sight, that he remembered his conversation with Trevor the night before. He relayed everything he’d learned to Vanessa, who dutifully recorded it in the small notebook she kept in her purse.

By nine o’clock, Harvey had grown impossibly agitated, which translated into pointless anger directed at both Vanessa and Ray.

“Down boy,” purred Vanessa finally. “Let me try something.” She dialed a number on her phone, which turned out to be the one for Uptown Messenger. “Frankie, please.” A short wait. “Hello, Frankie. Why yes, it is. Look, I’m just doing a follow up – dotting my ‘t’s and crossing my ‘i’s … haha, yes I did mix that up. Silly me. I’m calling about Mike Ross. Did he stop by for his check? No? But he must have called, surely. Huh. Okey dokey. You still have my number, right? Yes. Okay. Buh-bye.” She hung up and shook her head. “No Mike. No word. What do you want to do?”

Harvey checked his watch, even though he already knew the exact time. “Shit. I have to put in an appearance at the firm. Can I convince you to stick around here a while longer?”

“Of course. My car is around the corner. If anything urgent comes up and I need to leave, I’ll have either Phillip or someone else keep watch. I still think this is our best bet.”

Harvey nodded morosely, and watched Vanessa exit the car. He caught Ray’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“You think he’s okay?” asked the driver.

“Sure,” he answered, with a confidence he did not feel. “He has to be. Maybe he found another job. Or a place to stay.”

“You know I always liked that kid. I don’t think I ever told you that. Or him.”

“I’m sure he knew.”

_Knows,_ he corrected internally. _Not past tense._ He couldn’t shake the awful premonition, however, that had been building inside him since Mike failed to show up at the messenger company at seven. What had happened to him? Where the hell was he?

 

******

 

It only took one firm shake to his shoulder for Mike to jackknife into a sitting position, eyes flying open. He immediately shut them again and groaned as sharp pain lanced through the back of his head and across his ribs.

“Oh, geez, they really did a number on you.”

He cracked an eye open to find a woman leaning over him. She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her right away.

He remembered the attack only vaguely. One second he’d been asleep inside of his cardboard shelter, and in the next, rain pelted him, fists pummeled him, and a booted foot landed kick after kick to his belly and ribs. The arm flung over his head moved to protect his middle, leaving his skull vulnerable to the repeated thud of something hard. Things went fuzzy after that. The attackers rifled through his pockets and became even more violent when they found so little of value. He felt himself pulled to his feet and used as a punching bag for long, agonizing minutes.

He didn’t remember anything past that, until he woke up in the muddy alley with this woman looming over him. It had still been dark when the attack took place, but what he could see of the sky above him had lightened, and he could clearly make out the woman’s face. He’d been right earlier. She was familiar. Her buttoned up coat covered her uniform and nametag, but, “Audrey?” he croaked, touching the back of his head gingerly. His hair felt stiff and matted, as if caked with dried blood.

“Do you need me to call 911?” Audrey asked.

911\. That meant police, and ambulance, and a trip to the ER, with bills he’d never be able to pay. Recalling the rough, intrusive hands, he frantically checked his pockets. As he’d feared, his new ID card was missing, along with his social security card, phone, and every single scrap of change he’d had. At least they’d left him his shoes. And his clothes. He looked up to find Audrey eyeing him with an expression that appeared more impatient and less solicitous than it had moments earlier. “Um,” he said, “no. No thank you.” His voice sounded harsh and raspy, and he couldn’t help but worry at the effect on his health of a night spent lying in the cold and the wet. “I’m okay.”

She nodded, and turned to leave. Mike lurched to his feet, fighting off sudden dizziness.

“Wait. Please. I’m sorry. Do … do you remember me?”

Her expression softened. “Sure. Looks like things haven’t been going so well for you since the last time I saw you.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a rough bark. “You could say that. I hate to ask you this, but, could I use your restroom?” His bladder was fine at the moment, but he wanted to wash the mud off his hands, assess his injuries, and try to warm up. He’d noticed that he was shivering uncontrollably.

“You bet, sweetie.” She led the way to the back door of the diner, which opened onto the alley. “I suppose you’re lucky I found you. The new girl took my shift last night. Apparently, she believes that carrying out the trash is beneath her.” She pointed down a short hallway. “Restroom is right there.”

He nodded gratefully, and went inside, closing the door behind him. “Fuck,” he muttered, when he got a look at himself in the mirror.

Mud and blood mixed together on his face. He must have been face down at some point in whatever composed the muck on the alley floor. Preferring not to dwell on that nauseating train of thought, he got busy scrubbing his face clean with the coarse paper towels the diner provided. When he was done, he could see that the bleeding on his face had been minimal. His lower lip had been cut – probably on his teeth, possibly on a ring worn by one of his attackers. Bruises decorated much of the rest of his face, still faint, but no doubt working their way to dark, colorful beauties.

He took off his coat and lifted his shirt, checking out the damage done to his midsection. Prodding gingerly, he found that the worst damage had been done to his left side. He couldn’t detect anything cracked or broken, and hoped that he had been lucky enough to get away with only bruising. That, in itself, was painful enough, but would not require medical attention. He reflected sardonically that all of those trips to the prison infirmary had educated him to a certain extent on the variety and severity of damage the human body could sustain.

When he’d straightened his clothes, he finally did what he could to examine the wound that worried him the most – the gash in the back of his head. Using dampened paper towels, he dabbed at it to wash away the dried blood. Growing impatient, he dunked his head underneath the faucet, cursing the lack of hot water. Using soap from the dispenser, he scrubbed at his head, wincing at the pain this awakened, but gutting it out with a continuous string of colorful curses. Maneuvering his head this way and that in front of the mirror, he tried to get a look at whatever was back there, but in the end he had to settle for prodding carefully with his fingertips. There was a definite bump, and what felt like a cut, but he couldn’t feel any new blood oozing out, which was a relief of sorts.

He dried his hair as best he could with more paper towels, combed his fingers through it, took a leak, put his coat back on, and then there was nothing left to do, and no more reason to stall here in the relative safety of the restroom. He still needed to get to Uptown Messenger for his paycheck. He had no idea how he would cash it with no ID. Maybe if he retrieved his birth certificate from the storage unit … He came to a complete halt, staring through the floor with growing alarm. They’d taken the key. His attackers. They’d grabbed everything he had, including the key to the storage unit, which wouldn’t do them a bit of good. He, however, was now locked out.

But … Al knew him. He’d met Al face to face, and shown him his ID. Surely he would let him in if Mike explained the circumstances.

_Dear God, when had life become so difficult? Had it always been this way, or was there some unwritten rule that when you were low, Fate conspired to bring you even lower?_

“Sweetie? You okay?”

Audrey was staring at him with a look of concern. Her arms were lined with plates of breakfast food, and Mike realized he was blocking her path to the dining area.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I’m taking off, but I just wanted to say thanks. I really appreciate your help.”

She nodded, started to move past him, but stopped again, as if coming to a decision. “Take a seat, why don’t you? I’ll treat you to coffee and a little something to eat. You look like you could use it.”

Mike’s eyes filled with sudden moisture at this unexpected gesture of kindness. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Stop arguing and sit. And get out of my way before I drop these plates.”

He sidestepped, allowing her to pass, and watched her wind her way through mostly empty tables to deliver the food. Moving more slowly, he followed, finding the familiar corner booth where he had passed his first night of freedom.

He vowed, as he sat there letting the various aches and pains settle more deeply into him, that if he ever got back on his feet again, Audrey the waitress would acquire one extremely, eternally grateful guardian angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be such a tease. I promise that Mike and Harvey will meet face to face in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Too many "Don't Walk" signals plagued Mike, making the trek from the diner to Uptown Messenger last for what seemed like an eternity.

The waffles and scrambled eggs Audrey had fed him had restored some of Mike's energy, but this was offset by the multitude of aches and pains from the mugging, and the weight of worry over how badly the incident had set him back. To make matters worse, he felt as if he was coming down with a cold. His throat had grown scratchy, and he felt warm and damp with sweat everywhere. The pounding in his head could be either a result of encroaching illness, or from the concussion he'd likely suffered during the beating.

If he'd still been in prison, he mused while he waited for another light to turn green, at least he'd be able to enjoy a few relatively stress-free days lying down in the infirmary. As it was, he needed to keep moving, and to keep his brain working, and searching for ways to salvage the situation.

The paycheck might be enough to get him a new phone, and a day's worth of food, if he was careful. Audrey had suggested he apply for food stamps, which seemed so obvious that he didn't know why he hadn't thought of it himself. He'd have to find another computer, so he could log back into Craigslist and change his contact information. Identification had become a problem once more. He needed it to cash his check, and to sign up for assistance, but he couldn't afford to replace his ID until he cashed his check. Maybe Frankie would agree to give him cash, instead of the check.

His head hurt more and more as all of his thoughts and worries circled around and around, and finally, he had to force himself to shut it all off.

By the time he reached his destination, he'd begun to limp. He pushed through the door and made his way to the front desk. Boris gave him a quick glance, but didn't otherwise acknowledge him until he'd finished handing out several delivery and pickup assignments over the radio.

"Thought you were going to be here at seven," he said, and then squinted at Mike's face. "Ouch. Who won the fight?"

"Definitely not me. Do you have my check?"

"Frankie's got it in the back. Hang on a sec." Boris made an announcement on the intercom that reverberated throughout the building, complete with echoes and feedback. "Have a seat."

Mike hesitated before retreating to one of the chairs across the room from the front desk. He watched Boris make two phone calls, but from where he was sitting, he couldn't hear what was said, or to whom the calls were made. It didn't matter to him. He had plenty he needed to get done, but at the same time he wasn't exactly in a hurry to move again, or venture out into the chilly September air. He plucked a Kleenex from the box on the table next to him, and blew his nose.

A skinny guy with red hair appeared from the back of the room. Mike would have ignored him, but he seemed intent upon staring a hole in Mike's face from where he leaned against the wall a few feet away.

"Do I know you?" Mike snapped.

Watery grey eyes shifted away, but Mike had the impression that he was still under surveillance. Mike fidgeted for a few minutes, and finally caught Boris's eye again. "Is Frankie going to be out here any time soon?" Mike called across the expanse of space.

Boris shrugged and went back to reading the newspaper. Mike's teeth ground together. He had things to accomplish, and it was already getting close to noon. His head continued to pound ferociously, and he considered whether it would be worth it to get up and ask Boris for an aspirin. He caught the skinny red-haired guy staring at him, and felt a prickle of unease run up his back. Maybe he intended to wait until Mike got paid, and then jump him for the money.

Mike stood too quickly, and the room telescoped in front of him before snapping back to its normal shape. On legs which were too wobbly, he limped back to the front desk. In his peripheral vision, he saw the front door open and close, admitting an attractive woman with long, dark hair, whose short skirt identified her as clearly not a bike messenger. Ten years ago, he might have ogled her, but now he simply didn't care. He stepped away from the desk, expecting Boris to field whatever questions she might have about the business.

Instead, her gaze remained fixed on Mike, and her trajectory changed, bringing her right up to him.

"Mike Ross?" she asked, sounding as if she already knew exactly who he was.

"Maybe." He knew that he hadn't broken any laws lately, and he didn't owe anybody anything. It was a struggle, though, not to panic over this sudden interest in him.

She held out a slim hand, and Mike stared at it, calculating options and risks and possible traps. A wave of dizziness had him blinking his eyes rapidly. Finally, he took the waiting hand and shook it carefully, and then allowed himself to be steered a few steps away from Boris.

"My name is Vanessa Smith. I'm a private investigator, employed by Harvey Specter."

Her hand tightened on his arm, as if she expected him to bolt. He might have done just that, except that he had frozen in place the instant she spoke Harvey's name. "And? So?" he finally managed to get out, as his heart jumped and twitched inside his chest like a wounded bird.

"He's concerned about you, and would very much like to speak with you."

"What's stopping him?"

"You haven't been an easy person to locate."

"Right.” He dragged the word out. “He could have located me easily enough for the past three years and nine months." His shock had worn off, and now his temper began to spike. He yanked his arm out of her hold. "It's a little late for his supposed concern."

He turned and began striding toward the door, remembered the money he was there to pick up, and pivoted abruptly back to the front desk.

"Tell Frankie I need my check. Now."

Boris met the woman's gaze, and Mike watched her give him a crisp nod. When Boris reached into his desk drawer for an envelope which had obviously been there all along, cynical laughter burst from Mike's throat. "Oh, I see. I get it. You all are in it together."

He whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at the red-haired man, whose eyes now darted back and forth, as if searching for an escape route. "I didn’t forget about you. You’re in it too, aren’t you?"

"Mike." The woman's voice was warm and silky, probably meant to soothe and reassure. "There are things you don't know. You need to meet with Harvey and at least listen to what he has to say."

"I'm a free man now," he countered, followed by a harsh laugh at the irony of those words. "I don't have to do shit." Once more he headed for the door, shadowed by Harvey's private investigator.

"Wait. At least take this," she said, digging in her purse to pull out a small wad of folded bills.

He hesitated. "What is that?"

"Money. It's from Harvey. I told you, he's concerned about you."

Mike's first instinct was to throw the money in her face, but the truth was, she seemed like a nice lady, and was only acting on behalf Harvey. He had a better idea.

He went back to Boris's desk, once more trailed by the woman. He borrowed a pen, endorsed the back of the check, grabbed the money out of her hand and rapidly counted out seventy dollars, shoving the rest back at her, along with the check.

"Here. Give that check to Harvey. Tell him I owe him three dollars, since the check is only for sixty-seven dollars. I'll mail it to him. You can also assure him that I'm fine, and he can stop with his phony concern. And I'd better not see you following me around anymore or 'investigating' me. Have I made myself clear?"

"Mike, I get that you're angry, but you don't know the full story."

She seemed intent on arguing further, but Mike was done. He'd gotten the cash he'd needed, cash that he'd earned. He hadn't been forced to accept anyone's charity, or absolute worst case scenario, _Harvey's_ charity. He had a new stake to build on, and this time he wouldn't be so stupid as to let anyone take it away from him.

As he stomped out of the building and onto the sidewalk, he decided that his next move would be to retrace his steps to the diner to repay Audrey, partly because he didn’t want that debt hanging over him, but mostly because her diner seemed like the only safe place in a world filled with shadows and shifting sand.

With a clear goal in front of him, he put the sleek, pretty investigator out of his mind, and concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other. He would have liked to put Harvey out of his mind as well, but he'd been attempting that for years, and had not yet been successful.

 

******

 

It was close to noon by the time Vanessa called Harvey to let him know she'd made brief contact with Mike.

"Did you give him the money?"

"Part of it. He wouldn't take it all. He signed over his paycheck to you and took enough cash to cover it."

"Stubborn." Harvey sighed. "Are you still with him?"

"Not exactly. I think the mention of your name made him angry. He tore out of the messenger place in a hurry."

Harvey picked up a pen and studied it, estimating the amount of force necessary to snap it in half. "You let him get away again?"

"No, Harvey. Do you think I'm an idiot? I'm tailing him right now, which is more difficult than it sounds, since he's on foot and I'm driving."

"Where is he going?"

"How the hell should I know? I'll call you back when he gets there. Wherever there is. I should probably warn you, though."

"Warn me? About what?"

"He didn't look so good, like a puff of wind could knock him over. And I think he's been in a fight recently."

Harvey nearly groaned out loud. Mike in a fight never turned out well. The kid hadn't even been able to hold his own against Louis Litt. His mind shied away, as it always did, from thoughts of Mike trying to fend for himself in prison. "I see. I'm going to ask Gretchen to clear my schedule for the rest of the day. You call me as soon as you know anything."

They hung up, and Harvey phoned Ray to make sure he was downstairs waiting. It was nearly another hour before Vanessa called him again.

"He's at the _Clover Diner_." She gave him the address. "It looks like he's ordered some food, so he should be there a while. I’d hurry if I were you. And I'd lead with the Sidwell thing, because I don't think he'll want to talk to you otherwise."

He thanked her, ended the call, grabbed his coat, and practically sprinted for the elevator.

 

******

 

"Please, Audrey, just take the money. I'll feel better if you do." Mike hoped it was true. He doubted he could feel much worse at the moment.

Audrey scowled at him. "I didn't help you out make you beholden to me." As she took in his appearance where he slumped in what he had come to consider "his" booth, her expression softened. "I tell you what I'll do. I'll keep a ticket for you, showing the amount you owe -- or _think_ you owe, which you don't -- and when you get a job that lasts for more than half a day, you come on back, and then I'll accept your money. How's that sound?"

Mike rubbed his forehead, wishing he could rub the throbbing ache away. "Fine. Would you at least let me order something now? And pay for it?"

"That I can do. What would you like?"

He wasn't all that hungry, just chilled and nauseous, but he ordered some soup and a cup of tea, and Audrey went to put in the order. While he waited for his food, he tried to take stock again, to plan out his next move, and what he could accomplish with what was left of the day. It was becoming more and more difficult to concentrate, though, with his pounding skull and the tremors that worked their way through him.

He rested his head in his hands, wishing he had somewhere he could lie down and sleep. Even sitting up, he could feel himself drifting off. If he did have a concussion, that probably was not a good idea. God, he was so tired, though.

He jumped as a bowl of chicken noodle soup appeared in front of him, along with his tea, and a basket stuffed with crackers. "Thanks," he said, wincing at his croaky voice.

Audrey nodded and went off to wait on some other customers. Mike stirred his soup lethargically and wondered if there was some way he could convince Audrey to adopt him.

 

******

 

"Should I wait for you?" Ray asked.

"Yes, please. I'm not sure how long this will take."

"Good luck in there."

Harvey nodded, pressing his lips together in a grim line as he exited the car. He pushed through the front door of the diner, setting a bell tinkling. He scanned the interior rapidly, and spotted Mike almost immediately, sitting at a both in one of the far corners. Something seemed to settle inside him at the first sight he'd had of Mike in nearly four years.

Vanessa had been correct: Mike did not look well. He had lost weight, his hair was long and shaggy and appeared unwashed. He looked so pale, aside from the dark bruises on his face. Did they not allow people into the sunlight in prison? At the moment, Mike was perfectly still, staring down into a bowl of what looked like soup, with his spoon hovering over it.

A waitress approached, and Harvey held up his hand, giving a nod in Mike's direction. The woman's eyes narrowed. She stood with her arms crossed, and Harvey could feel her gaze on him as he closed the distance between himself and Mike. Without bothering to ask permission, he slid into the booth across from Mike.

He hadn’t meant to startle Mike so badly, but the other man visibly jumped, and dropped his spoon with a clatter and a splash of soup. Wide blue eyes gaped at Harvey. Shock seemed to freeze him for several seconds, and then he began to struggle to get out of his seat. Without thinking about what he was doing, Harvey grabbed his arm and held him in a crushing grip.

“Wait, Mike.”

Mike yanked his arm free with an angry strength that surprised Harvey. “What the fuck?” Mike snarled. “Keep your goddamn hands off me. Leave me alone.”

Mike whirled to head for the exit. Harvey noted his pronounced limp, and could hear his labored breathing. He also spotted a sizable bump on the back of his head.

“Damn it, Mike. Can we just talk?”

“Is there a problem here?” This from the waitress, who had placed herself between Harvey and Mike.

At this point, Mike could have probably made it out the door and perhaps evaded him, but he’d stopped to fumble in his pocket. Harvey was confused for half a second, until he realized that Mike was trying to pay the waitress for his meal – the meal which Mike had not eaten.

“No,” said Harvey to the waitress, “there’s no problem. I’ve got his meal.” He reached for his wallet.

It became clear at once this this was the wrong move. “Put your money away, Harvey,” Mike ordered. “I don’t want anything from you. I can pay for my own food.”

By now, the waitress – Audrey, according to her nametag – had a hand on both of them. “You both need to stop yelling. You’re making my other customers nervous. Mike, I will not take your money unless you sit back down and eat your soup. Nope, don’t argue. You know as well as I do that you need it. And you – ” She let go of Harvey and backed up a step. “Harvey, is it? If Mike says he doesn’t want to talk to you, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Harvey took a slow breath, telling himself to remain calm. “Mike. Please. Give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Sit back down, eat your soup, and listen to what I have to say. After that, if you still want me to leave you alone, I’ll respect your wishes.” He flicked a glance at Audrey. “Is that okay with you?” he asked her.

She didn’t look happy, but gave a short nod. “If Mike agrees. And if you order something.”

“Fine. Coffee and a club sandwich. Mike? Do I need to order that for here, or to go?” He turned to look at Mike, just in time to see his face go from pale to chalk white. His eyes rolled back in his head and he started to fall.

Harvey leapt forward and caught him in his arms, letting out an _oof_ of surprise at how much he still weighed. “Shit. Mike. Mike?”

“I knew he should have gone to the hospital this morning.” Audrey scrambled to the other side of Mike and helped Harvey ease him to the ground.

“This morning? What happened this morning?”

“I found him out back in the alley, passed out and beat to hell. Said a couple of guys jumped him, took everything he had, which was practically nothing. Well, except for a bike that he sounded pretty fond of.”

Running his hand quickly over Mike’s head, Harvey found the lump in the back. _Do not panic,_ he ordered himself. “Audrey, there’s a black town car out front. The driver’s name is Ray. Would you please ask him to get in here?”

“What about Mike?”

“I’m talking him to the ER.”

“Why should I trust you with him?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised by her protectiveness toward someone she had just met. Mike had always inspired that in strangers. “You can trust me,” he said, but she didn’t appear convinced. “I’m Mike’s friend. He’s upset with me over a misunderstanding, which I intend to clear up just as soon as he wakes up. Please, Audrey. I care about him, and I very much need you to go find my driver so we can get him in the car and get him looked at.”

She stared at him for several seconds longer, as if trying to see into his heart and his head to assess his trustworthiness. Finally, she gave a short nod and went to get Ray.

Harvey let out the breath he’d been holding in his lungs, and brushed Mike’s bangs off of his forehead, only to become alarmed at how warm he felt. Mike grimaced and shifted restlessly. Harvey grabbed his hand and held it tightly, ignoring the interested onlookers they had attracted.

“It’s going to be okay, Mike,” he whispered, hoping with something like desperation that he was telling the truth. “You’re going to be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Mike hurtled through space. He lay on his side, with something hard but yielding under his cheek. When he tried to lift his head two hands pressed him back down. His eyes fluttered open, and he began to struggle, even as the too familiar car interior came into focus.

Harvey -- because it was Harvey, of course -- stopped holding him down and helped him to sit up. Too groggy to resist, Mike accepted his help. A red sign slid past outside the car, and Mike had to blink and blink before he could the single word: EMERGENCY. The car slowed and Mike finally caught on to the fact that they were in front of hospital.

"Oh, hell no." He yanked on the door handle, but discovered that it was locked.

"You need to be checked out. Just humor me, Mike. Please?"

"You don't know me at all if you think I'm going to go in there." Not without a fight, anyway.

"Someone hurt you. You fainted. And that waitress -- "

"I didn't faint, I passed out. And that waitress has a name. Audrey."

"Fine. Audrey. She told me you'd been attacked, and judging by that bump on the back of your head, I'd say the odds are good that you have a concussion."

How had Mike managed to forget the depth and intensity of Harvey's gaze? He felt himself falling into it, like being sucked down a dark, bottomless tunnel, and had to shift his own gaze just to the left of Harvey's face in order to maintain his precarious equilibrium.

"Yes," he finally answered. "I figured that out on my own, but I have less than fifty dollars in my pocket, and no health insurance. Do the math. Goddamnit, Ray, unlock the fucking door or I'll kick out the window." At the moment, he felt rage-filled enough to manage it.

Harvey's face had gone tight, and his eyes bleak, signaling his intention to pursue an argument to the bitter death. Mike hated that he knew Harvey's expressions so well, even after all this time apart.

"Ray will unlock the door when I tell him to."

"Harvey … " The pain in Mike's head, which had gone dormant, pulsed brightly once more. He was so far gone in anger that he spent several seconds wondering what would happen if he swung on Harvey in the back of the town car. He'd probably accomplish nothing more than to cut his knuckles on Harvey's chiseled cheekbones. Still, he was tempted.

"I came to see you. At Altona."

It took a moment for Mike’s brain to catch up to what Harvey had just said, and when it did, he shook his head in denial, which turned out to be a mistake as the ache in his head spiked. "Nobody came to see me," he ground out, panting at the effort it took.

Harvey's pained wince satisfied some petty place inside of Mike.

"I don't know if anyone else tried to see you, but I certainly did."

"Oh, come on, Harvey. It doesn't take an eidetic memory to remember a complete lack of something."

"Did you ever wonder why?"

Mike leaned back against the headrest. "Of course, but it wasn't all that hard to figure out. You had to protect yourself. All of you did. It’s what I insisted on, after all. Still, it would have been nice to get something, a postcard, anything to let me know I hadn’t been forgotten, or that you appreciated my efforts to protect you even a little.”

“You weren’t forgotten. Your first couple of months there, I made the drive up three times, and each time I was turned away. They told me you refused to meet with me.”

Mike squinted at Harvey, not quite understanding what he was telling him. “No. That’s not true. I never said that. I was never even given the choice.” He closed his eyes as his stomach began a queasy roll.   “I was in the infirmary a lot at the beginning. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t see me.”

“No. That’s not it.”

If Harvey said more, Mike didn’t hear him. His nausea surged and he tried the door handle again, finding it still locked. “Ray, unless you want to clean vomit out of your car, you’d better let me out.”

When he heard a telltale click, Mike yanked on the handle, shoved the door open, and practically fell out onto the pavement in front of the ER doors. Everything Audrey had fed him that morning came up in a swift, foul rush. He felt hands on his shoulders, supporting him, and didn’t push them away. Moments later, a wheelchair appeared in his field of vision.

“Don’t argue, Mike,” said Harvey, helping him to his feet, voice surprisingly gentle. “I’m taking you inside to get you checked out. Don’t worry about the cost. Once we’re sure you’re okay, I’ll finish explaining. After you hear me out, you're free to go wherever you choose.”

Mike didn’t have the strength to put up any more of a fight. The dizziness from earlier had returned. He sat, and gripped the armrests of the wheelchair tightly, fingers clenching and unclenching. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about Harvey, and whether or not he should still be angry with him. A tiny spark of hope had awakened inside him, however, so he set his anger aside for the moment, until he had more information, and until his head cleared enough to process it.

He hated to think how much this was going to cost Harvey, and determined to keep track, so that one day he could pay him back every last penny.

 

******

 

“Poor kid,” said Ray to Harvey.

Despite Harvey’s strenuous objections, Mike had been taken by himself from the ER’s waiting area through the double doors to an exam room. Stubborn as ever, he’d rejected Harvey’s offer to go with him.

“You can take off, Ray. I’ve never known a visit to the ER not to take a ridiculously long time.”

“You sure? I don’t mind sticking around.”

“I’m sure. If they release him today, I’ll take him home in a cab.”

Ray stood up and slipped his coat back on. “Do you think he’ll agree to that? Going home with you, I mean.”

“I’ll convince him. Who do you think you’re talking to, after all? See you Monday morning. Enjoy the rest of your day, and the weekend.”

“Sure, Harvey. Thanks.”

Harvey’s prediction proved correct. He waited for nearly four hours before a doctor finally came out to speak to him, having been granted permission by Mike. This in itself felt like progress of sorts.

“We ran some tests,” said the young woman. “Mike has a slight concussion. We did not detect any bleeds, or other complications. We’d prefer to keep him overnight for observation, but he has flatly refused.”

“Would you like me to talk to him?”

“Do you think it would do any good?” The doctor had a sour look on her face, which told him that she’d already had a protracted argument with Mike, and didn’t rate Harvey’s chances highly.

“Probably not,” he conceded. “Is there any danger to him if he signs himself out?”

“Just keep an eye on him. Read this.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “These are the danger signs you should look for. If any present themselves, get him back here ASAP.”

“How long before he can get back to his regular routine?” He didn’t see any point in telling her that there was nothing regular about Mike’s routine.

“Every patient is different. I’d say, once his headaches and nausea subside, which could be tomorrow, or a week from tomorrow. Sometimes it takes longer. If the headaches bother him, he can take acetaminophen.”

“That’s it? Nothing stronger?”

“We prefer not to hand out pain relievers like candy. If the Tylenol isn’t enough, take him to his regular doctor.”

Harvey frowned, but nodded anyway. “Can I see him now?”

“He’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He thanked her and watched her hurry off to see her next patient.

 

******

 

In prison, at the beginning of his sentence, before the anger at Harvey and accompanying sense of betrayal had taken hold, Mike spent hours remembering Harvey’s condo, picturing it in detail, and imagining himself back there, safe and happy, working on a case, or watching a movie and sharing a pizza with Harvey. Now, as the elevator let them out, he noted that not much had changed. The throw pillows on the black leather couch were different, the pattern still abstract but with more color. The television was bigger. New photographs hung on the wall over the desk in the corner where Harvey worked when he was at home.

It took only a few seconds for Mike to notice these things, and maybe there were other changes, but sitting down felt more important in that moment than analyzing Harvey’s recent decorating choices.

He limped to the couch and gratefully eased himself down, unable to stop the low groan that escaped him. His muscles had stiffened up, he hurt everywhere, and he felt tired all the way down to the molecular level. He remained acutely aware of Harvey hovering nearby, and seeming uncharacteristically at a loss as to how to speak to Mike. He left the room for a minute, returning with a blanket and a pillow from his bed.

“Do you think you can keep anything down?” he asked Mike, setting pillow and blanket on the couch next to him.

Mike shook his head. “Doubtful. I could use some water, though, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. How about some tea?”

“Whatever.” Mike eyed the blanket. He lifted the shoulder of his shirt and sniffed.

“You want to take a shower?” Harvey hadn't moved to get the tea yet, and had been watching him closely.

Mike hesitated, fighting with himself. He hated accepting help from Harvey, but at the moment his options were limited. Could he afford to indulge his pride? He was starting to smell ripe, and who knew when he’d get another chance for a hot shower? So, “Yeah,” he finally answered. “That would be great.”

“If I leave you alone, you’re not going pass out again, are you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You'd better be. I’ll leave a towel and some clean clothes on the counter.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Mike, just let me help you. Please.”

Mike heaved a long sigh, and felt his resistance bleed out of him. What was the point of arguing, or of fighting Harvey every step of the way? He'd win in the end. He always did. At the moment, Mike lacked the strength to refuse his help. “Yeah. Sorry. Thanks, Harvey.”

If he didn’t sound particularly gracious, they’d have to put that down to exhaustion.

 

******

 

After placing the promised towel and clothes inside the bathroom, Harvey kept one ear cocked for the sound of a body hitting the floor, worrying that he shouldn't have left Mike alone in his current state, but unwilling to start an argument that would ruin their fragile truce. In the kitchen, he set a kettle of water on the stove and dropped four slices of bread in the toaster. While he waited for the water to heat, he thought about how to proceed.

Just getting Mike through the door felt like a victory. They needed to have a serious talk, but the handout the doctor had given him made it clear that rest was the most important thing for Mike right now. Since the MRI had indicated no serious complications, he could let Mike sleep without disturbing him. Television and computers were not recommended until Mike had recovered a little. Luckily, today was Friday, so Harvey could keep an eye on Mike for the next couple of days. By Monday, he hoped to have convinced Mike to stick around and continue to accept Harvey’s help until he could get back on his own feet.

By the time the tea and toast were ready, Mike had emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of Harvey’s sweats and a Yankees t-shirt, damp hair combed back, away from his face. He hadn’t shaved, and had a bit of scruff going. He was too thin, his hair could use a trim, or at least a competent stylist, but to Harvey’s eyes he looked good. He carried the mug of tea and plate of dry toast into the living room and set them on coffee table.

Mike sat down and raised one eyebrow. “You cooked for me?”

“Didn’t even burn it. If you want something on your toast, or something more substantial, just say the word. I put sugar in your tea. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine." He lifted a piece of toast, took a tiny bite, and put it back on the plate before taking a sip from the mug of tea. "Do you plan to stand there and stare at me the whole time while I drink this? Because to be honest, it's making me uncomfortable."

Harvey blinked, and forced himself to look somewhere else. _Guilty as charged_. It was just that it had been too long, and he wanted to absorb every detail of Mike, in case -- Well, just in case.

"Seriously, Harvey. Sit down."

Harvey sat down across from him.

"Shouldn't you be at work right now?"

"My firm, my rules. I set my own hours now." He spoke matter-of-factly, but even to his own ears it sounded as if he was bragging.

"That's right." Mike eyed him over the top of the mug. "Specter Law." He dragged out the two words. "Couldn't find any partners worthy enough to add their names to the letterhead? Or do you just prefer the whole lone wolf thing?"

"Not at all. There are some strong contenders among my senior partners. I expect to be making an offer to at least one of them after the first of the year." He didn't mention any names, and was relieved when Mike didn't ask.

Mike stared down into the mug of tea, lips pressed together in a tight line, leaving Harvey to wonder what he was thinking. He probably had a lot of questions, and was debating whether or not to ask them. Harvey had questions of his own, mostly about prison, and how Mike had fared inside, all which he was reluctant to ask. If Mike wanted him to know, he'd tell him.

"You don't have to babysit me, you know." Mike spoke the words without looking up.

"If I left you alone, would you still be here when I got back?"

A long pause, then, "Yes, but only because I have nowhere else to go."

_This is where you belong._

The idea appeared in his mind, fully formed, solid and certain, but he judged that the time had not yet arrived to speak the words out loud.

"I'd really like you to stick around, Mike, at least until you're feeling better."

"Why didn't they let you see me?" Mike lifted his gaze, and caught Harvey staring again.

Harvey blinked a few times as he sought to adjust to the sudden change of subject. "The thing," he said, "about doing what you and I did for a living -- what I still do -- is that one tends to make a fair number of enemies. And sometimes those enemies push back in unpredictable ways."

"Yeah? Who'd you piss off?"

"Not me this time. It happens that one of your enemies has a sister who is married to the man who runs Altona prison." He waited, giving Mike a chance to guess. When he didn't, Harvey filled in the blank. "Jonathan Sidwell."

Mike's eyebrows lifted. He blew on his tea, even though it must have already cooled, and took a quick drink. "Shit. Not my first guess. He's a shark, but I never thought he'd be that petty, not after all this time. I wouldn’t have even said he was my enemy. Are you sure it was him?"

"You think it was a coincidence? Me neither. You weren’t permitted visitors. Parole was never on the table. And incidentally, I deposited money into your inmate account. Were you able to spend it?"

"No. I never knew about that. I did wonder about the parole."

"I drove up on Tuesday to give you a ride home when they let you out. I called in advance to make sure you knew, so you’d wait for me. But guess what?"

"I didn't know." Mike voice and face had grown blank and expressionless.

Harvey began to get a sick feeling.

"Mike, was there anything else? Were you singled out in any other way that didn't make sense at the time?" Harvey's hands clenched into fists as he considered the possibilities.

"I, uh, there was this group of long-timers that had it in for me from the start, before I even had the chance to do anything in particular to piss them off. I always figured I was getting the 'fresh meat' treatment." He began rubbing one hand up and down across the top of his thigh. "The first time they found me without any guards around, they punched my lights out. Beat the ever-loving crap out of me. I ended up in the infirmary for three days, followed by a week in solitary, because of course it was my fault." He huffed out a humorless laugh. "It only got worse from there."

His eyes took on a faraway look -- the famous hundred-yard stare, thought Harvey. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Mike bit his lower lip and shook his head. "All the shit you hear about and hope isn't true." After a long swallow of tea, his eyes flicked to Harvey's, and back to the floor. "It stopped eventually." His mouth crimped into a bitter looking curl. "Want to know why? Why it stopped?"

Every possibility that came to mind made Harvey ill, but he nodded anyway. "Why?"

"Same thing that got me in there in the first place. My fucked up, freaky mind. I handed out legal advice on the down low, and in exchange I received protection, and items to barter for all the amenities I wanted." He laughed again, although it emerged as a harsh bark. "I guess some people just can't be rehabilitated."

"I'm sorry," said Harvey, and he meant it. "Everything that happened -- it's on me."

"Let's not go there." Mike slumped with his head against the back of the couch, his gaze on the ceiling. "I did the crime, so I did the time. I said it then, and I'll say it again: I didn't want anyone else to pay for my mistake, least of all you. Besides, you in prison? You may be able to throw a decent punch, but with that pretty face of yours … not good."

Harvey rolled his eyes, even though Mike wasn't looking at him. "That's debatable. But, look, we don’t need to go into all of this right now. According to the doctor, you should be resting. You look damn near ready to pass out again. Stretch out, sleep, and I'll go do some work at my desk. Maybe when you wake up you'll feel like eating something."

Mike made a grumbling noise, but yawned hugely, proving Harvey right. "Fine, but do you think it's too soon for another Tylenol?"

It was, but Harvey had seen the way Mike squinted against the lights, even though they weren't especially bright. He got up and retrieved the bottle from where he'd left it on the kitchen counter, shook one pill into Mike's waiting hand, and kept the bottle, ignoring the annoyed sound Mike made.

He watched Mike move the pillow to the arm of the couch, lie down and pull the blanket over himself, and if his hands itched to adjust the blanket and make sure Mike was properly covered, he suppressed the impulse and settled for insuring that Mike closed his eyes.

Before he moved away, though, Harvey couldn't stop himself from saying, "Now that you know the truth, I hope you'll give some serious thought to staying here for more than just a night or two."

Mike's eyes opened, and he regarded Harvey somberly, but didn't answer. A few seconds later, he shut them again, and within minutes, to Harvey's great relief, he began snoring softly.

For the first time in three years and nine months, Harvey felt like he could breathe again.


	7. Chapter 7

Mike's whole body jerked as he came awake, fired by a jolt of pure panic. He jack-knifed into a sitting position, heart pounding, and swiftly took in his surroundings. He was at Harvey's place, he realized, and his head swam for a moment from the disequilibrium that assaulted him at this discovery. His palms grew clammy while he forced his sluggish brain to fill in the gaps in his memory to explain what had brought him here.

He'd passed out, and ended up in the emergency room. They'd released him, with instructions to take it easy for a few days, and he'd gone home with Harvey.

Why had he agreed to that?

After another interval of hard thinking, he remembered what Harvey had told him about Sidwell's brother-in-law, and how Harvey had tried to see Mike, but had been repeatedly turned away.

These revelations continued to amaze him. He wondered now, if Harvey had gotten in to see him, would that have changed anything? Would his first months at Altona been any less awful? He doubted it, and suspected that letting Harvey see the battered ghost he'd been during that time would have only caused them both pain. Still, if he'd known the truth, he could have avoided expending all of that energy on being angry at Harvey.

He'd held onto that anger for so long by now that he was almost afraid to let it go. It had become part of him, part of his armor. He shifted positions on the couch and groaned softly when all of his various aches came to life again.

"Doing okay?"

Mike turned his head, ignoring the persistent headache, and located Harvey at his desk in the corner of the room. "Yeah." It came out as a croak. He coughed, and coughed again. His throat felt almost as sore as his head, like it had been scoured with ground glass. Placing a hand on his forehead, he discovered it was warmer than it should be. In between becoming homeless and getting mugged, it seemed he had also come down with a cold.

"You don't sound okay." Harvey got up and walked across the room to stare down at Mike. "How's your head?"

"I wouldn't mind some more Tylenol." In prison, they had given him the good stuff. On most of his visits to the infirmary he'd needed it. Compared to Altona's worst, his muggers had been amateurs at best. Still, a concussion, minor or not, was no joke.

Harvey shook two capsules into Mike's palm, and he washed them down with cold tea.

"I had some food delivered while you were sleeping," said Harvey. "Think you can handle some soup?"

Mike took stock of himself and decided that, although he still felt vaguely queasy, he was also ravenously hungry. "I'll try."

"What's wrong with your voice?"

Mike coughed into his hand. "I think I caught a cold." He tried and failed not to flinch when Harvey set his hand on his forehead.

"You're warm. That settles it. You're staying with me."

Mike felt too tired and ill to argue. His defenses had crumbled from the twin assaults of the truth and his own physical weakness. "Okay," he whispered.

"Good. First we're going to get some soup in you, and then dose you up with Nyquil. You're not moving from that couch and – no. You know what? You're taking my bed."

"Harvey. It's fine." Harvey's couch was more comfortable than anything he'd slept on lately. Plus, he liked it out here, liked being able to look over and see Harvey. He may have been angry at him for years, but he'd never stopped missing him. Knowing that Harvey would continue to insist, Mike played the only card he had at the moment. "Besides, I don't think I could make it that far. I hurt everywhere."

Sounding grudging, Harvey said, "Okay, but if you change your mind, just say the word."

"I will. Thanks." He yawned and could not stop his eyes from drifting closed again. Hungry or not, he couldn't stay awake, and it wasn't until hours later that he ate Harvey's soup.

 

******

Even though Mike’s health was not the best at the moment, Harvey found it comforting and calming to have him nearby while he worked. He stayed at his desk longer than he might normally have done on a Friday night, and only went to bed once he’d checked to make sure that Mike was sleeping peacefully.

Saturday morning passed in much the same way as Friday afternoon. After lunch, Mike talked Harvey into putting a movie on, and later he sat at Harvey’s desk and used his laptop to update a Craigslist ad.

“You’re selling your furniture?” Harvey asked, looking over Mike’s shoulder. Gretchen must have been correct about the storage unit.

“I need the money. And there’s no point hanging on to it if I have nowhere to put it.”

Harvey didn’t have an answer for that, but it seemed a shame for Mike to lose everything he’d accumulated in his life.

“Those assholes stole my cell phone,” Mike said, “so for now the point is more or less moot.”

“Buyers can’t contact you through your account?”

“No computer, remember? Paying for a phone seemed easier than trying to find a library with an open computer every day or two, so I specified phone calls only. Same for the job applications I submitted online.”

Harvey nodded, starting to appreciate the difficulty Mike found himself in. He leaned against the wall near Mike and paused to mentally order his arguments. “Before you reject what I’m about to say, I would like you to really think about it.” He waited, and when Mike kept quiet, he continued. “I’m going to get you a new phone.” Mike opened his mouth as if to object, and Harvey held up a hand. “Let me finish. If it helps, consider it a welcome back gift. If you still have objections, keep a tally for future repayment. I don’t expect or want that, but that choice is yours to make.”

He watched Mike’s face as he seemed to struggle with the concept of accepting help – or maybe it was the concept of accepting help from Harvey. Finally, something eased in his expression, and the tension in his shoulders lessened. “That would be great, Harvey. Thank you.” He spoke with resignation and an exhausted sort of dignity.

_Good._ Harvey didn’t speak the word out loud, but the relief he felt at Mike’s acquiescence caught him by surprise. He decided to push for more. “Most potential employers won't even consider you unless you list an address. I'd like you to use mine.”

The idea clearly made Mike uncomfortable, but after only the slightest hesitation, he nodded. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

There were at least a dozen other things Harvey wanted to offer Mike – a haircut, new clothes, the name of his therapist (along with payment for as many sessions as he needed), a job. He didn’t want to push too hard too fast, so he left things where they were for the time being. Mike would be sticking around for a while. Harvey had time to work on him and soften him up.

“For now, I want you back on the couch, with your eyes shut. You look about ready to fall out of that chair.”

With a wry smile and nod of acknowledgement, Mike stood and moved back to the couch, flopping down onto it with a deep, heartfelt groan. “Is this what it feels like to get old?”

Harvey gave him an affronted glare. “Why are you asking me?”

“Obvious reasons.”

Mike’s mischievous grin transformed his face, reminding Harvey of their early years together, and he had to look away as something warm and familiar worked its way through him. He’d thought he had banished these sorts of feelings years ago, when it became obvious that Mike didn’t share them. His answering scowl was more severe than he’d intended, and every witty retort he came up with sounded too accusatory or harsh inside his head. He settled for a grunt, and was saddened when the grin left Mike’s face.

Harvey cleared his throat. “Try to get some sleep. Yes, that is an order. I’m going out for a while. We need more food, and your cold medicine is nearly gone.” _Be here when I get back,_ he wanted to say. Instead, he grabbed his keys and left.

 

******

 

The cold medicine had Mike feeling blurry and loopy and wandering for long intervals somewhere between dreaming and waking. During one lucid moment, he eyed the mound of used tissues on the coffee table and decided that the least he could do while Harvey was gone was tidy up his area. He eased himself into a sitting position and began gathering up the tissues. As he worked, he heard the key in the lock, and the front door opened.

"I promise I was sleeping. I just wanted to … " The words died in his throat when he turned his head and saw who it was.

"You have got to be kidding me," said Dana Scott. Scottie. She stood at the front door with the knob still in her hand. Closing the door with a controlled slam, she stalked into the room, looking him up and down. "Incredible. Who the fuck let you off your chain?" The anger and disdain in her eyes were every bit as venomous as he remembered from their last meeting.

Mike tightened the wad of tissues in his fist, compressing it smaller and smaller. "I finished my sentence. They pretty much had to let me go." His nose itched, and he resisted the urge to rub it. "Harvey's just helping me out. Don't make this into something it's not." It hurt to talk, and his voice emerged scratchy and hoarse.

Scottie's heels clicked across the tile entryway. She stopped at the other end of the couch, glaring down at him. He saw now that she carried a stack of files in one arm.

"You have got some nerve, imposing on Harvey like this."

"I'm not -- "

"He spent months rebuilding his reputation after your trial. Did he tell you that? No one believed he didn't know you were a fraud when he hired you, no matter what deal you cut in the end. What do you think is going to happen when word gets around that you're out and actually staying with him?"

Mike dropped the tissues on the table, plucked a fresh one from the dispenser, and blew his nose. "And how exactly would word get out? I don't plan on telling anyone. If Harvey does, that's his business." He raised his gaze from the floor to meet her hard, glittering eyes. "I'm guessing those files you're carrying mean you're working for him, so I know you wouldn't spread any gossip that might hurt him. Right?"

Her mouth contorted as something ugly entered her expression. "He may have picked you time and again over me, but you and your fake ass never deserved him. Now I'm a senior partner at Specter Law. Come the first of the year, it's going to be Specter and Scott. You, on the other hand, are nothing. You always were and you always will be precisely that. Nothing. That's right. I win and you lose."

If he hadn't been so tired and ill, Mike might have had the energy to put up a defense. As it was, her anger and bone-deep bitterness only confused him. "Okay. You win. Whatever."

She wasn't done yet, and Mike began to realize – if he still didn't understand it -- the years long resentment she'd harbored. She was practically hissing as she continued. "Maybe he felt sorry enough for you to let you squat on his couch for a few days, but you'll never be anything more to him than an embarrassing mistake from his past. And here I am, his college sweetheart, a real Harvard attorney without your awkward, pathetic history. Just between you and me, I intend to become his partner in every way, and this time there's not a thing you can do about it."

Just as it always had, her jealousy seemed completely misplaced to him. Still, it hurt what pride he still possessed to see her gloating like this. For the first time, he admitted to himself how pleased he'd been on those occasions that Harvey had chosen him over her. Another time, he might have made the attempt to unravel the mystery further. Today, he simply couldn't be bothered to care. He lay back down on the couch and eyed her sullenly.

"What?" she taunted, sneering. "Nothing to say?" When he remained stubbornly silent, she turned on her heel to walk to Harvey's desk, where she deposited the files. She turned back around and crossed her arms, glaring at him from across the room. "You know, I always thought it was a shame that you didn't get a longer sentence than you did. At least they made you serve every last day of it."

Mike narrowed his eyes, but did not otherwise react. How could she know that, unless she was keeping close tabs on him?

"Were you surprised when they sent you to Altona? God, I would have loved to see the expression on your face when you found out." She slowly advanced on him. "You see, the judge owed me a favor. And I do my homework. Just ask Harvey. When I found out who was running that shit hole, I knew it would be the perfect location to send you to, for you to learn your proper place."

Mike was speechless with shock for several seconds. "What did I ever do to you?" he finally got out on a croak. "I get that you're jealous, but of what? There was never anything between Harvey and me." He would never admit to the attraction he'd felt for his boss, at least not to her. It had been a crush, nothing more, and he'd known it would never be returned.

She gave a sniff of disdain. "Everyone always said how smart you were. What a crock. You were too stupid to see what was right there in front of your face." She circled behind the couch, moving toward the front door. "Let me give you some parting advice. Get the hell out of Harvey's life. I fucked you over once, rather successfully, and I'll do it again in a heartbeat if you get in my way."

The door slammed behind her. Mike let out his breath in a rush as stabby Hitchcock music played in his head. "Psycho," he muttered. He grabbed up the pile of tissues and finally walked them to the kitchen where he tossed them in the garbage. He thought about pouring himself a drink, paused, and deliberated some more. "Fuck it," he rasped, and helped himself to a couple shots of Harvey's good scotch.

He hadn't had a drink since he went to prison, and the Macallan went straight to his head. By the time Harvey returned from his errands, Mike was zonked out and snoring, so he did not get to see Harvey's reaction to finding the evidence of Scottie's visit.

 

******

 

It was possible that Mike had slept through Scottie's visit. Harvey looked uneasily between the stack of files on his desk, and his snoring guest. He hadn't asked for the files, and didn't doubt that Scottie had used them as a pretext to check up on him. It was unusual enough for him to take an entire afternoon off for it to raise questions. He'd followed that up with not putting in his customary Saturday hours and ignoring her texts. Scottie must have been consumed with curiosity. She never had been one to mind her own business.

When he carried the groceries into the kitchen and spotted the used tumbler in the sink – and caught a lingering whiff of scotch – he deduced that Mike had been awake for the visitation. Harvey's own reaction to Scottie had been the same often enough -- too often lately. One endured Scottie's latest attempt at maneuvering, and then one tossed back a drink or three to restore equilibrium.

Harvey could only imagine Scottie's ire at finding Mike here. It made him wish he had insisted more strongly that Mike take the bed, where he would have been out of sight. On second thought, if Scottie had discovered him there, the fireworks would have escalated exponentially.

Not for the first time, he regretted giving her a chance at Specter Law. He'd felt sorry for her when she'd been let go yet again by another prestigious firm. If he'd been a complete stranger, he might have taken one look at her erratic work history and not given her a chance. He did know her, though, and knew that she was capable of being an excellent attorney. So he'd given her a chance, and she'd proved to be a valuable asset for Specter Law.

Lately, she'd been hinting, not so subtly, that she wanted more. She was under consideration for name partner, along with several others, but he'd begun to believe that would be a mistake. He'd told her more than once, in what he'd believed to be firm, straightforward words, that he was not interested in more from her than a professional relationship.  

With the groceries put away, he indulged in a small drink for himself, and wandered back into the living room, scowling at the files on his desk. It seemed it was past time for him to demand his key back from her. His gaze tracked over to Mike. There was someone else who needed the key more than Scottie.

 

******

 

Mike was feeling strong enough to sit at the kitchen counter and eat dinner with Harvey, which consisted of pasta with chicken and vegetables, and a salad. Harvey had not mentioned the magically appearing files, so after Mike had finished eating, he set his fork down and broached the subject.

"So, ah, you had a visitor."

“I saw.” Harvey wiped his lips with his napkin and collected the dishes, walking the two steps to deposit them in the sink. He paused with his back to Mike, and then turned and considered him. “I imagine she was surprised to find you here.”

Mike laughed, which turned into a cough. “You could say that. All signs point to the fact that your girlfriend does not like me.” He was watching Harvey's face closely, and so caught the sudden tightening of his features.

"She's not my girlfriend."

Judging by the edge to Harvey's voice, Mike suspected he should drop the subject, but was still unnerved enough by the raw hatred she had hurled at him earlier, that he felt more discussion was called for. "Maybe someone should tell her that. She acts like a jealous wife where you're concerned." Observing the darkening of Harvey's expression, he added, "And she's jealous of me, in case I didn't make that clear. Which is nuts, right?"

Harvey opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and turned back to the sink, turning on the water full force. Mike stared at his back, confused by his reaction. Evidently Scottie remained a sore subject for him. Finding his energy flagging again, he wandered back over to the couch and lay down. While he studied the ceiling, he reviewed Scottie's visit in his mind, recalling something she'd said. _"I fucked you over once, rather successfully, and I'll do it again … "_

At the time, he'd assumed she was referring to ensuring the judge sent him to Altona. He began to wonder now if she'd meant something else. They'd never discovered who had brought him to the attention of the U.S. Attorney's office. Anita Gibbs had received an anonymous email, sent from a public computer. At Mike's urging, Harvey had confronted Scottie and asked her point blank if it had been her, she'd denied it, and the subject had been closed.

She would deny it though, wouldn't she? If she'd admitted to being the whistleblower, Harvey would have been furious with her, and a future together would have become an impossibility.

On the other hand, in Scottie's mind, a future with Mike still in the picture would also be an impossibility, so it would be to her advantage to get rid of him. His head began to pound as he considered the question from various angles, and tried to decide whether or not to mention it to Harvey. In the end, he chose to kept it to himself for now. Throwing around baseless suspicions would only make him sound as unhinged as Scottie.

He glanced up when he realized Harvey had joined him in the living room. He stood with his hands in his pockets, frowning down at Mike.

"Look, Mike," he began, "don't take anything Scottie says too seriously. We've had a complicated relationship over the years, going all the way back to Harvard. She still feels as if your secret is what ultimately kept us apart."

Mike felt the all too familiar guilt work its way through him. That secret had caused so much damage to the people he cared about, and if there was nothing he could do to change that, it still hurt like hell. He'd served his time – was still serving it, and probably would be in one way or the other for the rest of his life. "Maybe … " He'd been going to suggest that he should leave, but the thought of walking out Harvey's door, back into all the problems waiting for him in the world on his own, stopped the words in his throat.

He glanced down at the expensive phone Harvey had bought him, still in the box on the coffee table. He'd also added Mike to his plan, which had been far more generous than Mike had expected or felt he deserved. He needed to find a way to start paying him back, and he couldn't do it lounging here on the man's couch.

"Do you think I could use your computer again? Now that I have that fancy new phone, I can get serious about finding a job."

If Harvey was surprised by his sudden change of subject, he didn't show it. "Of course. No, you stay there. You're starting to look worn out again." He carried his laptop over to Mike and set it on his stomach. "For obvious reasons, I can't use my law firm contacts to locate a position for you, but if I hear of anything else I think you might be good at, I'll certainly let you know."

Mike nodded, mouth twisting wryly. "I'll take pretty much anything at this point. I can't afford to be picky."

"Sure you can, and you can stay here for as long as it takes to find something worthy of your skills and intelligence."

"I'm an ex-con. A felon. And skills and intelligence are kind of what got me here. I'm starting to think they're overrated."

Harvey shrugged, as if he disagreed, but was not willing to get into an argument with Mike right then. "Just do me a favor, please, and keep it in the back of your mind. You're too young to settle for washing dishes or flipping burgers for the rest of your life."

Mike wanted to answer that maybe he didn't deserve any better, but like Harvey, he wasn't in the mood for a fight. He nodded and continued scrolling through the job opportunities on the screen in front of him.

 

******

 

Sunday passed without incident. Monday morning, Harvey returned to work. Mike had reported that he felt better, and his headaches had all but disappeared. He looked less exhausted, and if his voice remained hoarse, the coughing had lessened.

"You're going to stick around, right?" asked Harvey, trying not to sound as worried as he felt at leaving Mike on his own.

"Yes. I already said I would. I do need to go out though."

Harvey lifted one eyebrow.

Mike sighed and blew his nose. "I need to replace my ID card. Another casualty of the mugging."

"Ray can take you. What time do you think you'll be leaving?"

Mike stared at him for several long seconds. "That's not necessary, but I'm still feeling shaky enough that I'll take the assist. Maybe send Ray by in a couple of hours?"

"Good.   When you're done, swing by my office. I'll have a key for you to get back in here."

"Ah … "

Mike clearly did not like the idea of visiting his office.

Harvey suppressed a sigh. "Call me when you get there and I'll bring it down to you."

"Hm. It's okay. I can wait for you somewhere. You might be too busy to get away."

"If I am, I'll send someone down with it."

Mike continued to look uncomfortable, and about two seconds away from panicking. Harvey remembered how Gretchen had told him that Mike had fled at the sight of her. It was too easy to forget how fragile Mike probably still was.

"It's okay, Mike," he said, voice gentle. "Gretchen doesn't bite. Neither do any of my other employees." Excepting Scottie, possibly.

Mike blushed. "I know that. It's just that sometimes … it's all a bit much. Everything out there is so loud, and crowded and moves so fast." He scratched behind one ear. "I'm sure I'll be fine once I get my footing again. And if you could tell Gretchen I'm sorry, I'd appreciate it."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah. I still don't know why I freaked out like that. Why I couldn't be civil to her. I guess I just felt ashamed and I didn't want to deal with … I don't know.” He looked away, gaze distant. “Maybe I should have taken my gate money and left the city for good.”

“Mike …”

“I wouldn't have gotten far on what they gave me, but at least I could complete my unraveling in front of disinterested strangers, rather than risk seeing that crushing pity in the eyes of someone who once … " He clamped his lips together, as if realizing he’d revealed too much. "Anyway. I'll come by for that key. I just don't think I can come inside to get it."

"We'll work something out." He clapped a hand on Mike's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. As he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door, he thought he could feel Mike's gaze on his back. He wished he could do more to ease his emotional way, but unfortunately, that was a journey Mike would have to make largely on his own. Harvey would do whatever he could, though, and the first thing was to have a talk with Scottie which he had been putting off for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I started this story after S5 was half over, and now S5 has ended, and some of the little things I made up in this story don't match up with the show, which is fine, because it's an AU, but at the same time it's close enough to the show that the differences are making my brain feel weird and itchy. That's all. That's all I wanted to say. Except for all the usual, "sorry," "thanks," and "hope you like it."

“Close the door behind you, please.” Harvey continued typing for several more lines, all the while acutely aware of Scottie staring down at him before she turned and closed his door, using an extra dollop of force, creating a sharp thud that seemed to echo around the room. Harvey hid his flinch and glanced up, face expressionless. “Sit.”

She sat. Harvey saved his document and shut the lid of his laptop.

“We,” he began, crossing his arms, “need to talk about boundaries.”

“Oh, fuck. This is because I dared to show up at your fortress of solitude yesterday, isn’t it?”

He smiled thinly. “You always could read me, couldn’t you? Yes, that’s exactly it. Perhaps it wasn’t made sufficiently clear, so let me state, as unambiguously as I can, that you do not have drop in privileges. You’re my employee, nothing more.”

“Huh. Last time I checked, I was your partner.”

“If you’ve read the by-laws, which I know you have, you’re aware that I’ve structured my partnership so that I retain fifty-one percent control of any and all decisions affecting my firm.”

Mirroring him, she crossed her arms. “Just like in your personal life, you always need that control, don’t you?”

“I’ve learned the dangers of letting anyone else take it. What’s important right now is that you understand this: next time, if you feel the need to stop by my place, call first.”

Her eyes narrowed, taking on the calculating, dangerous look he knew too well. “This is because _he’s_ back. Isn’t it?”

He didn’t have to ask who “he” was, of course. “No, what this has to do with is a relationship which was over years ago. In case there’s any doubt in your head, I’m talking about ours, yours and mine. We tried, more than once, and it didn’t work out.”

“Right. As soon as your little pet entered the picture, any chance for you and me ended. I was just too stupid to see it until it was too late.” She studied her fingernails, which were perfectly painted blood red.

“Scottie, I can see you’re primed for a fight, but I’m not interested.” He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on the desk. “You’re a great attorney.”

“Oh, god.” She shook her head, eyes rolling up in a look of disgust. “This is the famous Harvey Specter brush off, isn’t it?”

Harvey let out a silent sigh, wishing he’d had the option to postpone this conversation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? You’re about to tell me that I’m a fine attorney, but I’m simply not a good fit for your firm.”

“No, that’s not it. My only intention bringing you in here was to spell out my boundaries, and to ask for my key back. The topic of your future here was not on the agenda.” _Not yet. Not today_. Judging by the look of wrath on Scottie’s face, the current topic was sufficiently infuriating.

“Your _key_? Your fucking key?” She rose to her feet and began pacing in front of his desk, her steps careful and precise in her heels. “Because of him? It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

“He has a name.”

“Oh, your little pet criminal has a name? Is it a pet name?”

“Scottie … ” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache threatening.

“What is it? What do you scream out when you’re buried inside of him? What charming names do you call him?”

Harvey found himself on his feet, hands clenched into fists. “Goddamn it. You need to stop right there.”

Her malicious smile held no trace of humor. She stepped closer, leaning in so that her face was inches from his. “Let me guess. You call him baby. No? Sweetheart? No, that’s not your style. Too sentimental. I know, I’ll bet you fuck his face and call him your dirty, dirty boy.”

Harvey was frozen with anger, jaw tight and twitching. “You need to shut your fucking mouth about Mike. Right fucking now.”

“Ooh. Touched a nerve, did I? Press where it hurts, right?” She must have seen something in his face that alarmed her, because she took two rapid steps backwards. Still, her expression remained scornful, and she laughed harshly. “You’ve been pining for him like crazy these past few years, haven’t you? Poor Harvey.”

His hands curled tighter. “Get out. I changed my mind. You’re fired. You can leave my key with Gretchen, along with your keycard and security badge. I suggest you get out of my sight in the next ten seconds if you want anything approaching a decent reference.”

“Fuck you, Harvey. I don’t want your reference.” She gave a disgusted huff. “I never thought I’d see the great Harvey Specter being led around by the dick, especially not by a worthless loser like him. I always thought you had better taste. Guess I was wrong.”

For the first time in his life, Harvey was dangerously close to slamming his fist into a woman’s face. He imagined the feel of it striking delicate bone and cartilage, snapping her head back and bloodying her nose and lip. He breathed hard for long seconds, sweat popping out on his forehead, before he regained control of his emotions. “You need to go.” Voice low and deadly.

“Oh, I’m leaving. But you know what, Harvey? There were times in the last four years when I actually felt bad about turning Mike in. Now my only regret is that I couldn’t get him a longer sentence. Maybe next time. The courts tend to be less forgiving of repeat offenders.”

She swept out of his office, and the air left his lungs in a noisy rush. He reached down blindly for the first thing that came to hand, which turned out to be his stapler, and hurled it against the far wall. The crash it made wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped, so he sent a heavy glass paperweight after the stapler, cracking the glass on one of his framed photographs.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and dropped down into his chair.

 

******

 

The sign stenciled on the glass front door of Harvey’s building, which Mike read backwards, from the inside, read, “No Solicitors.”

It was sort of funny, considering the several meanings for the word “solicitor.” Salesperson. Attorney. He was neither, and so had every right to be here, but he could feel the doorman’s gaze on him, assessing and judging.

He stood in the lobby, studying the town car at the curb, while the doorman studied him. He couldn’t go back upstairs to Harvey’s condo, since he didn’t yet have the key. Panic fluttered inside his chest at the thought of stepping out the door and into the car. It was the same feeling, he realized, that he’d gotten at the sight of Gretchen a few days ago. At the time, he’d named it fear, and that was a large part of it, but now he recognized the other strand for what it was.

_Shame_.

Ray, Harvey’s driver, had known Mike as an attorney on his way up. Mike had lied to Ray, just like he’d lied to (nearly) everyone else during those years. Since then, he’d been revealed for what he was – and wasn’t. The words that had spilled out of Scottie’s mouth might have hurt, but they were true. He was nothing. He’d pretended to be more, pretended to be someone worthy of respect. He may have served his prison sentence, had paid his “debt to society,” but that would never make up for the more personal nature of his crimes, the trust he had been given and had broken, with person after person after person.

In prison, he’d learned what it felt like to have every single one of his physical defenses battered down and obliterated. He wondered if, in some ways, that was preferable to the vulnerability he felt now. Here, on the outside, no falsehood, no carefully constructed image, flimsy or otherwise, protected him from the opinions of the people he’d known. He was as exposed and naked as a person could be.

He sighed and glanced back at the doorman, who stood at his station, scribbling something on a pad of paper. Maybe Mike was only being paranoid, but the quick look the man gave him reminded him too much of the scrutiny of the guards at Altona.

The clock was ticking. Ray was waiting. Harvey would expect him in an hour or two. It was such a simple thing, to open the door and step out onto the sidewalk, to wave, and say, “Hello, Ray. How’s it going?” He’d been driving the other day, after all, when Mike went to the hospital, so what was the big deal?

Mike couldn’t seem to get his limbs to obey him. He might have stood there all day, fogging up the glass with his agitated breathing, but eventually Ray would get tired of waiting, and come to the door looking for him, and then he’d have to add coward to his humiliating list of character defects.

He shook his hands out at his sides, took several deep breaths that did little more than make him momentarily light-headed, and pushed the door open. Ray must have been keeping an eye out for him. He hopped out of the driver’s seat and hurried around to the other side to open the door for Mike, who froze again, gaping stupidly at this gesture he didn’t deserve, and into the plush leather backseat, where he didn’t belong.

“Mike. You look a lot healthier today. Feeling better?” Ray’s smile was as open and friendly as he remembered.

Mike forced himself to move. He couldn’t quite manage a smile, but nodded carefully. “Yeah. Amazing what a decent night’s sleep will do.” And good food. And safe shelter.

And Harvey.

He started to climb into the back seat, but changed his mind. “Do you mind if I sit up front with you?”

Thankfully, Ray didn’t ask why, because Mike wasn’t sure he could articulate what he was feeling. The closest he could come, to himself, was that he was no longer one of those people who had earned the right to be driven around, especially not by a good man like Ray. Maybe Ray understood a little, because he didn’t hold the door for Mike, just walked around to the other side and seated himself, while Mike did the same on his side.

“So, where we going? Harvey mentioned you needed a new driver’s license. First stop, DMV?”

Mike gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t actually drive, but I do need a new ID card. And … would you mind driving to Brooklyn? I’ll probably need some personal papers to prove I am who I say I am.”

“No problem.”

Mike gave him the address of the storage facility, and spent most of the rest of the drive fretting about how he would get into his unit if Al wasn’t around today, since he’d lost his key in the mugging.

A shrill blare of sound erupted from his pocket. He jumped, heart pounding, and then realized it was his new phone. Pulling it out, he checked the screen. No one he knew. He answered, half-expecting it to be a wrong number.

“Yeah, hi,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Is the black couch still for sale?”

Mike sat up straighter. “It sure is. Are you interested?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Can I come and take a look at it? I have time now, if you’re available.”

Doing his best not too sound too excited (or relieved), Mike gave the person directions to the storage unit and hung up. Could his luck finally be turning around?

**

An hour later, they were on their back to Manhattan. Mike had an additional one hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket from the sale of his couch and dining room set. Al had remembered him and let him in and sold him a replacement padlock. Now, expecting Ray to drive him to the DMV, Mike realized with some surprise that they had taken a wrong turn.

Ray’s intentions became clear when he pulled up in front of a high end hair salon. From the look of it, a haircut here would cost him everything he had in his pocket – possibly more. He gave Ray a skeptical side eye. “I don’t think so.”

Ray smiled sheepishly. “It’s all taken care of. Don’t worry about it. Decatur is doing it as favor to Harvey.”

Mike wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He knew he needed a haircut, but had planned on finding a barber who wouldn’t bankrupt him.

Ray clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Harvey said if you put up a fight, to tell you to put it on your tab. And come on. Think about it. If you take a bad photo for your driver’s license, it will haunt you for years.”

“ID card,” Mike corrected absently. Ray did have a point. Also, if he was lucky enough to get a job interview, he might have a better chance if he didn’t go into it looking like a refugee from an eighties hair band on a bender. “Okay. I’ll do it. Which one is Dakota?”

“Decatur, and she’s the owner.”

“Who the hell names their kid Decatur?” he mumbled to himself, and then louder, with one hand on the door handle. “Pray for me.”

**

Mike studied Harvey’s building. _One Millennium Plaza,_ the sign proclaimed. He ran one hand compulsively through his newly short hair. It felt weird, as if he was pretending to be somebody he used to be, or as if he was trying to go back in time to that dumb kid who’d believed himself invincible.

“Hey, Mike. Mike? I’m going to go grab a bagel. You want one?”

Mike shook his head before turning partway to smile at Ray. “No. I’m good.” In truth, he was getting hungry, but didn’t wish to do the awkward dance with Ray of pushing money at him, and having it refused. It seemed easier to endure a grumbling belly.

Ray stared back at him for a few seconds, as if he didn’t believe him, but finally shrugged. “Watch my car for me, all right?”

Mike nodded, the door slammed behind Ray, and Mike went back to staring out the window. The weather had turned over the weekend, and today the blue sky and mild temperature could almost make one forget that it was fall. It was well past lunch time, but foot and car traffic remained heavy. It never really slowed down in this section of town until late at night.

Mike felt safely cocooned inside the car with its darkly tinted windows. He thought about Harvey, up on the fiftieth floor, probably deep into some client meeting, or resolving a crisis, with little or no spare time to be coming all the way down to street level to hand off the key. The polite thing to do would be to offer to go inside the building, ride the elevator up, and save Harvey the trip.

Being on the outside had made Mike jittery from the day of his release, but it had been manageable. Since the mugging, though, his anxiety had ramped up, and he was reluctant to be around strangers. He needed to break out of this pattern of thinking, he knew, before it escalated to something truly overwhelming.

“Baby steps,” he muttered, and opened the car door, letting the sounds of the city drift inside and fill the car. He heard muffled conversation that sharpened and then faded when someone passed by the door. Car horns blared a few streets over. Taking a few calming breaths, he swung his legs over to rest on the edge of the curb, and then stepped out of the car.

He closed the door, but kept his fingertips on the hand, anchoring himself to the illusion of safety. At first, he cringed every time someone walked too close to him, and his heart beat faster at each loud sound. The minutes passed, and no disaster befell him. He could do this, right? Sure. Maybe.

“Hey, you gotta move your car.”

He turned and found a police officer scowling at him. Sudden panic flared inside him, which he knew was irrational. He _knew_ it, but every system in his body went haywire just the same and he froze.

“Did you hear me? You deaf or what?”

“No,” he finally got out. “It’s not. Not my car.” He spotted Ray on his way back and relief flooded him. “It’s okay. Here’s the driver.”

Juggling bagel and coffee, Ray waved apologetically at the cop, and got in the car. When Mike didn’t immediately join him, he rolled down the automatic window on the passenger side. “Get in, Mike. We need to move up the block a little.”

“I … ” It was tempting to retreat to the safe zone of the car, but Mike still felt the need to prove to himself that he was not afraid to interact with the rest of the world. “I think I’m going to go up and meet Harvey in his office.”

“Sure. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Mike started walking, fumbling with his new phone, searching for the keypad screen so he could call Harvey. Someone bumped his arm hard, and the phone went skittering away on the sidewalk. “Shit.” He gave the other pedestrian an annoyed glance, and froze as ice moved down his spine.

It was Scottie, carrying a box of her belongings. Mike recognized the job loss walk of shame when he saw it. He’d done it himself more than once. “Hi,” he said, and then dove for his phone before it was stepped on. When he straightened up, brushing dirt from his pretty new phone, Scottie was still there, still glaring at him as if she’d love to reach into his chest and rip out his still-beating heart – and maybe devour it.

“Mike Ross. You do show up at the damnedest times, don’t you? Come to gloat?”

“No. I didn’t even … I had no idea.”

“That naïve shtick is getting old, kid. Better find a new con.”

Thinking he probably should have stayed in the car, Mike shook his head and tried to move past her. She stepped in front of him, nearly pushing the box into him. “You may think you’ve won, but I’ve got a lot of powerful friends who owe me favors. Take one step out of line and you’ll find yourself back in prison so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

Mike looked past her, into the far distance, searching for calm. “I didn’t come here looking for a fight. But if you don’t get that fucking box out of my face in about two seconds, I’m going to dump it over your head.”

She didn’t move immediately, but doubt replaced some of the scorn on her face. “Well, well. Listen to you. I guess you can take the boy out of prison, but you can’t take prison out of the boy.”

He stepped forward, shoving the box back into her, and forcing her backwards. His voice went low and deadly. “If you think you’re speaking to that green boy you met all those years ago, you’re mistaken. He’s gone. He died in prison. Take a good look at me. Look into my eyes and try to convince yourself you don’t believe me when I tell you that the man you’re speaking to now would not hesitate to do whatever it takes to protect himself from you and your bullshit threats.” He paused for breath, trying and failing to calm down. “The shorter version? Do not fuck with me.”

Their gazes locked and clashed for the space of perhaps a dozen thunderous heartbeats. Scottie blinked first, backing further away from him. Before she stalked off, she sneered, “When you see Harvey, ask him who got you arrested. That same person will do it again, given half a chance. Better keep your nose clean, junior.”

And then she was gone, swallowed up into the dense river of pedestrians. Mike shot an imploring look up at the blue sky, got no help from that quarter, and completed his phone call to Harvey.

 

******

 

Harvey met Mike at the elevator. The first thing he noticed was the haircut. It was short, a little bit tousled, a little bit spiky. Not unlike, he realized, his hair when they’d first met. The face was more lined, the mouth set in a perpetual frown, the eyes shadowed and filled with cynicism. Harvey would do anything, he realized with an odd twinge in his chest, to banish those shadows from Mike’s pretty blue eyes.

Resisting the urge to place his hand on Mike’s back – he had noted Mike’s subtle but clear aversion to touch – he led him down the hallway to his office. “You’re okay being here? I would have come down to meet you.”

Mike shrugged. “Nah. I’m trying a new thing. You know … courage. Whatever.”

It hurt Harvey’s heart to hear Mike speak about himself that way. “Stop it,” he said, half-humorously. “You’re one of the bravest people I know.”

Mike’s mouth grew pinched and he gave a quick headshake.

Harvey let it go. They’d reached Gretchen’s desk. He’d warned her that Mike was on his way up, and she remained seated, adopting her version of a non-threatening expression. Beside him, he could almost feel the tension in Mike, but true to Harvey’s assessment of him, he stepped right up to Gretchen’s desk and rearranged his face into a smile.

“I’ve been wanting to apologize,” he began, “for being an idiot the other day. I just … I was still adjusting and I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew from, you know, before.”

Gretchen stood up, rounded the side of the desk, and walked slowly toward him. “No apology necessary.” Slowly, so as not to startle him, she reached out, put her arms around him, and drew him in close for a hug. Mike remained stiff at first, but then he seemed to melt against her and into her, hugging her back with near desperation. “Welcome back,” she murmured.

Harvey was left wondering why his own reunion with Mike could not have been so simple and heartfelt, and why everything between them had so often been prickly and difficult, and filled with sarcastic jokes and banter designed to establish distance between them.

He observed the long hug out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to sort through the mail on Gretchen’s ledge. When they finally pulled apart, Mike’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears. Harvey looked past him to Gretchen and gave her grateful nod, and then ushered Mike into his office.

Mike dropped down onto the sofa and surveyed the room. Much of the furniture Harvey had brought with him from the old firm. He’d gotten rid of his prized signed ball collection, selling them for a tidy sum which had helped him with his startup costs. Instead of the outrageous painting he’d once had, he’d chosen a series of sober black and white photographs of early twentieth-century Manhattan.

“So,” said Mike, “this is where the magic happens now? But criminal law? Doesn’t defending scumbags offend your DA roots?”

“As opposed to earning more money for rich scumbags?” Harvey smiled and took a seat across from Mike. “I take the cases I want. For the price of getting a rich client out of a drunk driving charge, I can keep three other clients out of jail. I even do a little pro bono work from time to time.”

Mike nodded. “Um, you said something about a key? I mean, if you were able to pry it out of her ice-cold claws of death.”

Alerted by Mike’s bitter words, and something in his face, Harvey tilted his head to one side. “What exactly did she say to you the other day?”

Scowling, Mike shook his head. “Lots of things. She said more just now, downstairs.”

“Shit. I should have warned you. We fought, and I fired her.”

“It was pure, stupid chance, me running into her. Or more accurately, her running into me.” He bit his lip, appearing uncertain how much or what to say. “She, uh, she said you know who turned me in.” Blue eyes met Harvey’s, wide and accusing. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He held back a groan. He’d intended to tell Mike, to ease into it and break it to him when the time felt right, but Scottie had managed to beat him to it. “Because I only just found out.” He was reluctant to say more, wary about fanning the flames of animosity between Mike and Scottie any higher. Mike deserved to know, though. “It was Scottie. She sent the anonymous email.” He spread his hands to his sides and shrugged helplessly. “Obviously, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have brought her into the firm. I’m sorry. I never should have trusted her with your secret.”

Mike slumped back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as he digested this new revelation. “No, you probably shouldn’t have.” He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his newly shorn hair. “Shit. What did I ever do to her? But you know what? If she hadn’t done it, someone else would have eventually. I always knew that on some level. Knowledge is power in this game, right? Someone would have waited until you or me or the firm was at its weakest and then delivered the knockout punch. Don’t waste any time feeling guilty about it okay? It’s not worth it.”

Harvey gave a soft hum in return, meant to signify his agreement, but in truth he doubted he would ever get over feeling guilty about Mike. Deciding to change the subject he reached into his pocket for the key he’d gotten back from Scottie. Gretchen had put it on a tasteful brushed silver key ring, with a cast metal compass. He had no idea where she’d gotten it from, if it was specifically for Mike, or if she had just happened to have it on hand.

Mike took it from him, examining it without comment. He added a second key to it. Harvey didn’t know what it opened, and didn’t ask.

“How about a tour before you take off?” he asked Mike.

Mike did not appear enthusiastic about the suggestion, but after only the slightest hesitation, he heaved himself to his feet. “Sure. Let’s go.”

 

*****

 

As they walked, Harvey explained to him that he had started with maybe a quarter of the floor, and had gradually added to his square footage as more space became available, and his personnel grew to accommodate his expanding client base. Specter Law now took up the entire fiftieth floor, and was already beginning to feel squeezed for room.

Mike didn’t spot any familiar faces as Harvey led him past a file room, an accounting department consisting of two harassed looking people, paralegal offices, secretary workstations, and attorney offices that lined the outer wall

“All of my associates get their own office,” Harvey explained. “And I don’t let them in the door until they’ve worked at least two years at another firm, or at the DA’s office. Poaching promising attorneys is one of my favorite pastimes these days.”

Mike nodded and did his best to appear enthusiastic. He was happy for Harvey, of course he was, but couldn’t help the wave of melancholy that threatened to swamp him at all of the reminders of what he’d once had and could never get back.

They were passing a smallish office when someone called Harvey’s name. A woman stood up from behind the desk and moved to the doorway. She had long, dark hair, and wore a tight black dress that hit her mid-thigh, topped by a short black leather jacket. Because she seemed familiar, Mike checked the nameplate on the wall, which read, “Vanessa Smith.” Suddenly, it clicked. This was the woman he’d seen at Uptown Messenger. He eased back, behind Harvey’s shoulder, even though she had to have seen him already.

This was confirmed when she looked past Harvey to address him. “Hello, Mike. It’s nice to see you again. Great haircut.”

He shifted his feet and nodded curtly, running a hand through his hair, and was saved from having to speak when a well-dressed young man charged down the hallway, straight for Harvey.

“Thank God you’re here, Harvey. It’s a disaster. What did you do? What did you say to her? She’s gone, and trial starts in less than a week.”

Harvey grabbed the man’s elbow and dragged him down the corridor, where Mike could see him get up in his face to give him a talk which was likely more insult than pep. He could feel Vanessa watching him, and turned to find her sizing him up. He returned the favor for a few seconds before lowering his gaze to the floor.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” she said. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Excuse me?”

She stepped closer, bring the soft fragrance of flowers with her. “The way you’re feeling right now? It won’t last forever.”

“You have no idea how I’m feeling.”

“Don’t I?”

Mike looked up from the floor to find Vanessa’s gaze on him, clear and honest. “How could … wait. No way. You did time?”

She shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips. “Nothing like Altona, but yes. Don’t look so shocked. Everyone has a past. Some of us, like you and I, have a more interesting past than most. It’s all a part of our story, and there are many, many chapters still to come. So, at the risk of sounding like the worst cliché in the world, hang in there. You’re going to be okay.”

“Maybe,” he allowed, but quickly changed the subject. “I heard Harvey mention your name a couple of times over the years. It must be nice that he’s finally given you your own office.”

She gave a silvery laugh. “I have a whole floor in another building. It’s in a part of town without the insane rents as this one. I also maintain my own staff of misfits and nitwits. It’s just that with Harvey’s new area of practice, he calls upon our services more often, and it’s handy to have a spot here – a satellite if you will – when we’re deep in the middle of a case.”

They both watched Harvey as he spoke intently to the young man – an associate, Mike guessed, and one who wasn’t yet used to the Harvey Specter treatment. Mike could remember when that had been him, cringing inside at what seemed like an unduly severe rebuke, but was actually Harvey being the only kind of mentor he knew how to be. He knew now what lay underneath all of that harsh, dismissive behavior.

He’d never go so far as to call Harvey a pussycat, but he’d witnessed the depth of his caring and loyalty, put into action when he’d bestowed it upon Donna, and Jessica and even Louis. At one time, Mike had believed that he had reached that level of friendship with Harvey. He’d begun to see more and more glimpses of the man Harvey strove so hard to conceal, directed toward him. Maybe if they’d had the last four years together … But they hadn’t, and nothing anybody could do would change that. Instead of growing closer, Mike had spent that time twisted up with anger towards Harvey.

Mike could see how Harvey’s associate slowly grew calmer, nodding his understanding, determination replacing panic, and he wished he’d stayed in the car. This visit was dredging up memories he’d rather stayed buried. He blew out a gusty sigh.

Vanessa nudged his arm with her elbow. “Harvey’s really something, isn’t he?”

At her fond words, Mike experienced a twinge of something that could have been jealousy, but that was absurd – wasn’t it? He gave Vanessa a careful side eye. “So … you and Harvey?”

She laughed warmly. “Oh, honey. Not even close.”

Now relief flooded him, and maybe he was still too easy to read, because Vanessa laughed again.

“Sometimes,” she said, “what’s right in front of you is what’s hardest to see.”

“Okay, fortune cookie,” he muttered, when what he really wanted to do was ask her what she meant. Harvey had finished his impromptu conference and was walking back towards them, a distracted look on his face.

Mike’s attention was focused on Harvey, and so he startled slightly when Vanessa nudged him again. He glanced down to see her handing him a business card.

“Here,” she said. “Take this. If you ever need someone to talk to – about anything – call me. And maybe –” She didn’t get a chance to finish, because Harvey had reached them.

“Sorry, Mike. I’m going to have to cut this short. Vanessa, the prosecution is throwing three new witnesses at us. Gretchen has their names.”

“On it.” She strode down the hall, leaving Mike and Harvey alone together.

Mike forced a smile to his face. “Missing Scottie already?”

He received a classic Harvey eye roll in response. “No, but I do need to get busy finding a replacement. I was going to suggest we head out for a late lunch, but … “

“No, I understand. To be honest, I’m wiped out. I think I can hear your couch calling my name.”

Harvey hesitated, expression diffident, and reached for his wallet. “Don’t take this the wrong way.” He pulled out a credit card and extended it towards Mike, who looked at it warily. “That’s for dinner. I’d appreciate it if you could order us both something. It would really help me out.”

Mike wavered, but he still didn’t take the card.

“You still like pizza, right?”

Harvey was playing dirty, but it worked. Mike’s mouth watered at the mention of pizza and he took the card. “You’re putting a lot of trust in an ex-con giving me this,” he said, meaning it as a joke.

Harvey’s expression darkened. “You’ve always had my trust, and you always will. Please don’t talk about yourself like that again.”

The last lingering vestiges of Mike’s anger toward Harvey dissolved at those words. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “The usual toppings?”

“Sure. And a chopped salad. I’ll be home around seven.” He seemed to hesitate, and then reached over to pat Mike on the shoulder, his touch tentative. “Go get some rest. You look exhausted.”

Mike nodded. It was true. The day had worn him out. He gave Harvey a half wave in parting and went down to find Ray.

On the way back to Harvey’s place, he asked him to stop by a pizza place, where he grabbed a couple of slices to go, using his own money. Once the idea had been planted in his head, he couldn’t wait until dinner to satisfy his craving. Harvey didn’t need to know. Pizza twice in one day sounded like the best plan ever.

When he got back in the car, he handed one slice over to Ray, and then devoured his own, relishing every single salty, greasy, cheesy crumb. And as he licked tomato sauce from his fingers, it occurred to him that finally, for the first time since his release, he felt something approaching normal.

He felt free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

It had been years since Mike had to actively search for work. The messenger job had come to him through word of mouth, and the lawyer gig – well, that had been fate, and luck, and a huge helping of stupid. At least these days it seemed that pounding the pavement was no longer a thing. Everyone wanted him to fill out an online application, or email his resume to them. He had unlimited access to Harvey's computer in the evenings when he was home, and during the day he haunted the local library, arriving when they opened to make sure he got one of the terminals, and ignoring the numerous signs insisting that he limit his use to one hour.

At first he stuck to openings for which he had the qualifications and experience requested. There weren't many of those, so figuring there was no downside, he broadened his search to include jobs he knew he could do, if given the chance. He only needed to get an interview, and perhaps he could persuade a kind-hearted HR director to give him a chance. He'd bullshitted his way into the job at Pearson Hardman, after all, and the last thing he would name Harvey was kind-hearted – not back then, anyway.

These days, Harvey's kindness seemed to have no limits, at least where Mike was concerned. He continued insisting that Mike take it easy, and take his time, that his couch was available as long as Mike needed it. They usually ate breakfast and dinner together, with food provided by Harvey. They talked about their respective days. They talked, but they never _talked_. Mike suspected that Harvey was curious about his time in prison, but was too polite – or maybe too wary of what might be revealed – to ask him for specifics. Mike doubted he would ever open up to anyone about those years, but as time passed, the loneliness of too many ugly secrets kept began to gnaw away at his insides.

Over the next few weeks, he cleared out his storage unit in stages. The rest of his clothes migrated to Harvey's place. He sold nearly everything of value, only holding on to a few favorite books and his grandma's panda picture. He boxed these up, along with some random souvenirs and mementos he'd held onto, and then pleaded with the site manager, Al, to refund at least part of his advance payment, which had the unit paid up for another year. Al grumbled, but Mike could still read a contract just fine, and after some half-hearted bitching from Al, countered by crisp legal arguments from Mike, he found himself in possession of a cashier's check totaling over twelve hundred dollars.

He took this stake and opened a bank account, complete with debit card, and started feeling like an actual human being again. Tempting as it was to cut loose and buy something extravagant to celebrate the windfall, common sense insisted he make the money last. He did, however, want to do something for Harvey to show his appreciation, and decided to begin repaying him by fixing dinner. Although he didn't possess much of a cooking repertoire, his spaghetti was always a crowd-pleaser. Before heading home, he stopped at the neighborhood market for ingredients. It wasn't an expensive meal, but he winced at the prices. Still, he added a bottle of cheap Chianti to his basket. A celebration was a celebration, after all.

At home, while he was in the midst of chopping and sautéing and stirring, his phone rang. He pointed the remote control at Harvey's sound system to mute the bouncy R&B he'd been bopping to, and picked up his phone, propping it between his shoulder and cheek. "Yeah?"

"Is this Mike Ross?" A woman's voice, crisp and professional.

He set down the spoon carefully and gripped the phone more tightly. "Speaking."

"You applied for a job at our store. Can you come in for an interview? If you're still interested, that is."

"Yeah. I am. Sure. Of course. Where and when?"

She gave him the particulars, and he made noises as if he was writing it all down, while logging it in his memory.   The job was at a paint store in the East Village, and would consist mainly of stocking and ordering, with some occasional fill-in time at the register.

"You can work evenings? Weekends?"

"Sure, sure. Anytime. I'll take part time, full time, whatever you've got." Aware that he probably sounded overly desperate, he forced himself to slow down. "Ah. Okay. Two o'clock tomorrow. I'll see you then."

"Not me. You'll be interviewing with the store owner, Craig."

"Great. Great, great. Craig. Thank you so much. Looking forward to it." He disconnected the call and slumped against the counter, panicked and hopeful and amazed and dripping with sweat. He didn't know the first thing about paint, but supposed it couldn't be all that hard to learn. It would only be minimum wage to start, but right then, he didn't care.

He picked up the remote again and scrolled through Harvey's playlists until he found what he wanted. "Ha. I knew it. What a nerd." He started up the soundtrack to _Saturday Night Fever_ and went back to preparing dinner.

 

*****

 

"This is really good, Mike." Harvey forked more spaghetti into his mouth and studied Mike, not even pretending to disguise his scrutiny. There was something different about him tonight, and when he finally figured what it was, he spoke without thinking. "What happened today? You actually look happy for a change."

Mike's eyes shuttered, but the half-smile that had been making his lips twitch didn't go away. "I had a good day."

"Yeah?" Harvey sipped the cheap wine Mike had provided with dinner, reminding himself not to wince at the toe-curlingly sour aftertaste.

"First off, I finished clearing out my storage unit, and talked the manager into refunding the balance of my pre-payment."

Harvey grunted. "I'd have been worried if you couldn't win that negotiation."

Mike paused for half a second, head tilted to the side, as if dodging the tiny bit of praise. "Anyway. I opened a bank account. Used my shiny new debit card to pay for this meal. And best of all, I scored an interview tomorrow."

Seeing Mike so pleased with himself caused Harvey's heart to twinge weirdly. Must be the wine, he decided. "That's great. See? I told you all you needed was a little patience. Where is it?"

" _Garaldi's_. It's a paint store in the East Village. Mom and pop operation, judging from the website."

Harvey took another sip of wine to cover his surprise. He'd hoped Mike could find something more suited to his talents and intellect, but he supposed he needed to start somewhere. "That's great," he repeated. "What time?"

"Two."

"You should wear your suit."

"I will, even though I'll probably be overdressed."

"Better over than under. Whether you're a brother, or whether you’re a mother."

Mike snorted out a laugh. "Shut up. Nerd."

"Feel the city breaking, and everybody's shaking. I'm just saying."

Mike stood up and started clearing the dishes. "I don't have the job yet, but it'll be fine. Probably. I'm reasonably sure. And yes, at this point it's all about staying alive, but if I hear one more Tony Manero joke … "

"You'll break out the disco dance moves?"

Harvey could tell that Mike was trying his best not to grin. This felt good, like they'd gotten something back, some small part of who they had been before it all went to shit.

"You wish," Mike muttered to the sink.

Yes, Harvey did wish, so much. He'd love to see lighthearted Mike back, full of quips and quotes and goofy enthusiasm. They were coming along, though. They were making progress, and he'd take it. "It goes without saying that you can use me as a reference. Donna, too."

Mike's mood visibly darkened at the mention of Donna.

"What?" asked Harvey. "What's with the face?"

Mike turned to face him, leaning a hip against the counter. "Sore subject. Obviously. Fuck. They must all hate me. I torpedoed the whole firm, and yeah, life goes on and all that, but nothing is the same anymore. You'd all still be one big happy family if I hadn't gone to work there and ruined everything."

With more courage than good sense, Harvey tipped his wineglass and swallowed the rest of the vile Chianti. "You're overstating," he said on a cough, "the actual amount of happiness. Louis and I always fought like cats in a bag."

"I think he was the cat, and you were holding the bag."

"Nevertheless. _Pearson Hardman_ was never a utopia. I talk to Donna all the time, and I can guarantee she is enormously happy to be working for Louis. Except, of course, for the times when she wants to murder him." He stood and walked his glass to the sink, handing it over to Mike. "She doesn't hate you. In fact, she called me the day after you got out. Gave me a hard time for failing to pick you up. She wants to see you."

Mike appeared overly interested in the soapy dishes. "That's the first I've heard about it. It's the first word I've heard about her, or from her, since she walked up to me in the courthouse to yell in my face that she wished she had a time machine so she could go back in time and make sure you never hired me."

This revelation was harder to swallow than the wine. "I didn't know about that. _Jesus._ Everybody's emotions were so raw back then. I'm sure she regrets it now. I advised her to wait a little longer to get in touch, until you began to feel more like your old self. I've actually been meaning to talk to you about inviting her over for dinner."

Running a wet cloth along the edge of one plate, Mike pursed his lips. "Maybe. Not yet, but maybe. I'll think about it. Just her, though. Not Louis. And _God_ , not Jessica."

It felt unnecessarily cruel to admit that both Jessica and Louis had washed their hands of Mike and had no desire ever to cross paths with him again, so Harvey kept that to himself. Mike remained quiet, and maybe Harvey should have divined the direction his thoughts were traveling, but he was still caught off guard when Mike looked up suddenly, blue eyes bright and piercing, and asked, "Are Donna and Rachel still friends?"

It couldn't be disappointment that Harvey felt stab his chest at the pleading question, because that made no sense. "Yes, they are." He wasn't certain how much more he should reveal.

"I know about the wedding." Now Mike was winding the wet cloth around and around one finger, growing twitchy like he did when something made him uncomfortable these days. "I know who Rachel married."

Harvey sighed. "Okay. I wasn't sure if you'd heard. You should know that Donna was her maid of honor."

Mike's gaze darkened, and his mouth contorted into a twisty cynical line. "How loyal of her."

Harvey wasn't sure if Mike was commenting on Donna's loyalty to Rachel, or Rachel's lack of loyalty to Mike. Either way, nothing he could do or say would change anything. Still, it was an effort not to voice his own opinions of Rachel Zane – now Rachel Sanders – and how unsuited she'd been for Mike. He'd watched Mike chase after her as if she was a rare butterfly that finally graced his life by alighting on his finger – or his dick. In fact, Harvey viewed Rachel as the ordinary one, and Mike the priceless, rare specimen who deserved someone more …

He spun abruptly on his heel and walked into the living room, as if he could also alter the course of his thoughts. _Mike deserved someone more like Harvey._

Yes, he'd admitted to it, heard the words echo around in his mind, but he wouldn't speak them out loud. That kind of complication was the last thing Mike needed right now. It might even send him packing, which was already a real risk since he had money in the bank and the possibility of imminent employment. He cast a longing eye at his liquor cabinet, but decided against indulging.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" he asked Mike, who was putting the clean dishes away.

"Sure. You choose. You know what I like."

Harvey picked up the remote to bring up Netflix. "Let me loan Ray to you tomorrow, all right? To drive you to your interview."

Mike walked into the living room, wiping his hands on his jeans. "So he can report back on whether or not I get up the nerve to go?"

He said it lightly, but Harvey heard the real anxiety underlying his words.

"He likes you, Mike. He's in your corner. And maybe you can repay him with another celebratory slice."

A surprised laugh burst out of Mike. "Oh, shit. He told you about that? I knew he was a spy." He dropped down onto the couch, a cushion away from Harvey. "Well, if he asks, I like him too. Not like-like, just like."

Harvey chuckled, shaking his head. "Thanks for clearing that up, Becky Sue. Now what's it going to be? _Legally Blonde_ or _Mean Girls_?"

"Definitely _Mean Girls_ , because that's the one where they blow all that shit up, right? With cars? And zombies?"

"If only. _Zombie Apocalypse_ it is."

 

******

 

"Better let me out here, Ray." They were half a block from _Garaldi's_. "Wouldn't want them to mistake me for some rich guy who can afford a car and driver."

"They'd probably just assume you're being kept by some rich guy, and need the job to break free from him."

Mike laughed at what Ray obviously meant as a joke, but the words cut into him, sharp and incisive as a scalpel. They pretty much summed up his relationship with Harvey, except that Harvey wasn't getting his money's worth from Mike, was he? A sudden image swam in his mind, of Harvey and him in Harvey's bed. He shook his head to banish it, going hot from a full-body blush. He cleared his throat and opened the door. "Wish me luck."

"You got it. Knock 'em dead."

***

A bell over the door jingled when Mike entered the store. A young woman, perhaps around eighteen, looked up from the book she was reading and gave Mike a quick up and down perusal.

"You're here for the interview?"

He recognized the professional sounding voice from the phone call, which did not match her half-shaved head and shredded jeans. "Yes. Mike Ross."

"I'll buzz my dad." She murmured into the phone for a few seconds. "Go on back." She waved one hand in the general direction of the back of the store, already focused on her book again – a physics textbook, he noted.

He made his way past rows of dusty paint cans, color samples, brushes and rollers, to a door marked "Private." Before he could knock, the door opened, revealing a dark-haired balding man with a crooked nose and spectacular sideburns. Mike stuck out his hand.

"You're skinny," were the first words out of the man's -- Craig, presumably – mouth. "You gotta be able to lift at least fifty pounds."

Mike's hand still hung in the air. He slowly withdrew it. "It won't be a problem, sir. I'm a lot stronger than I look."

"Hmm. All right, come on in and let's talk."

They entered a tiny office, with a cluttered metal desk and a computer that was probably already out of date when Mike entered prison. Mike sat in the visitor chair, knees bumping up against the desk, and Craig took his seat behind the desk. He held out his hand, looking impatient. "You got a copy of your resume?"

Mike didn't. "Um. I emailed it last week."

"Geez. Hang on." He picked up the phone. "Adelaide."

Mike could hear his muffled voice on the speaker out at the cash register.

"God damn it, Addy, put down the book. I need this kid's paperwork. Uh huh. Well come back here and get it out of the goddamn computer for me." He kept his irritated gaze on Mike while they waited for her.

When she arrived, looking every bit as pissed off as her father, she went around the desk to stand beside him, bending over and moving the mouse around its pad. "There. See? It's not that hard."

"Would you just print it for me?"

She clicked three more times, and the printer lit up. "Anything else? You said I could study for my exam."

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her out.

When the printer had finished ejecting the single page in stingy little jerks, Craig grabbed it up. His eyebrows lifted, higher and higher, as his eyes made their way down the page. When he got to the bottom, he turned it over as if expecting to find more on the back. There was no more, and Mike cringed, trying to make himself smaller. A thirty-year-old man should have a more impressive resume than that.

"No retail experience. Not much of anything. Bike messenger. Meh. What did you do at … _Pearson Specter Litt_? What is that? A construction company?"

Mike shifted, and cleared his throat, and wondered why he'd ever thought anyone would want to hire him. "It was a law firm. Is. Without the … but that doesn't matter. Law firm."

"And you were … what? File clerk? Accounting clerk? What? Just a suggestion here, but people usually put a job title down under work experience."

 _No lying,_ Mike reminded himself. _No more lies._ He looked Craig in the eyes. "I worked there as a lawyer."

Now Craig looked as if he had just smelled something unpleasant. "Guess it didn't work out. And I don't see nothing for the past four years. Drug problem? Something with the … " He waved a hand around his head. " … the mental business? Something not good up there?"

Mike blew out a noisy breath and slumped in the chair. He wasn't going to get this job, but he might as well get used to saying the words out loud. "I was in prison. I practiced law without a license, got caught, and spent nearly four years behind bars." He gave a helpless shrug. "I can do the job. I'm a hard worker.   But … I get it. I committed a felony."

Craig whistled, appearing almost impressed. "Law without a license? That's a new one on me. We get our fair share of felons applying here, but they're mostly idiots and druggies. Those are some major titanium level balls you got going there, to pull off something like that."

Mike dared to hope, for the briefest of moments, that Craig was impressed enough to hire him. That hope was squashed when Craig crimped his lips together, held out his arm, and made a show of wadding up Mike's resume and dropping it into the garbage can. Mike's heart dropped along with the crumpled page. He wanted to be angry, to scream at the man that he wasn't being fair, but what would be the point? This was his life now.

"Scram," Craig ordered. "Don't even look at my girl on your way out."

"Sorry," he mumbled. His chair screeched back and wedged against the door. He stood and fought with chair and door for several humiliating seconds before he got it open and could make his escape. Adelaide said nothing as he stomped past her on his way to the exit.

***

Outside, he told Ray he needed some air, and preferred to walk home.

"Any luck?"

Since he'd been inside the store for barely five minutes, it had to be painfully obvious how things had unfolded. He gave Ray a rueful smile. "Not a good fit."

"Ah. Tough break. It's a long walk, though. Can I at least get you part way?"

Mike shook his head. "I need the exercise."

"Your call. See you around. And call me if you change your mind."

He watched Ray pull away and merge into traffic. He was probably already on the phone, reporting Mike's failure to Harvey. At least that would spare Mike from watching the hope in Harvey's eyes fade and disappear. His stomach growled, and he realized he was hungry. He'd forgotten to get Ray his slice, but now that he thought about it, pizza sounded good. No matter how often he ate it these days, he couldn't seem to get enough. He walked for perhaps ten minutes until he found a pizza place that looked promising, and went inside to place his order.

"To go?"

"Nah. I'll eat it here. And you know what? Give me a beer with that. Whatever you have on tap is fine."

He'd limited his drinking since he'd gotten out. Until yesterday, the alcohol had all been on Harvey's dime, but he had money in the bank now. The first beer tasted good, and went down fast, so he ordered a pitcher to eat with his pizza, and whiled away an hour eating, drinking and staring blankly out the window at the pedestrians walking past, and replaying the disastrous interview in his mind.

What might have happened if he'd lied? How could he even explain those four missing years without telling the truth? His already low mood dropped further, aided and abetted by the alcohol. He was considering the effort required to get up and go back to Harvey's place, and debating the merits of finding an actual bar to hang out in for a few hours to get down to some serious drinking, when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Jackmacoy! _Shit._ I almost didn't recognize you. You're looking real sharp there, man. How'd you score a suit like that?"

Mike's beer-soaked brain took a few seconds to supply the name of the big man sliding onto the stool next to him. _Viking_. They were only a few blocks from _New Hope House,_ he realized. Viking must have spotted him through the window. "Hey," he replied without enthusiasm.

"Looks like you're doing pretty well."

Mike snorted. "Not so much. I just got my first interview after three weeks trying, and my recent place of residence did not go over so great."

Viking laughed. "Oh, man, you gotta lie. Make something up, like you were taking care of your dying aunt. Anything."

"I know, right?" He finished off the last of the beer. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Tempting, but I'm on my way to a … thing." His eyes narrowed in what was probably an attempt to appear crafty. "It's that … thing I mentioned last time I saw you. You should really reconsider. The money's great, and the risk is low."

"Yeah, that's what everyone always thinks." He wasn't interested, not at all, but curiosity got the better of him. "So, what is this job, exactly?"

"Hmm. Well, I can't tell you everything, obviously, but once or twice a week we head out to suburbia, transportation provided, and spend an afternoon in the fresh air. You do good at that for a couple of runs, and maybe you get bumped up in the operation."

Mike shook his head. "Too vague. What are you doing? Robbing houses? Boosting cars?"

"Nah. That’s some primitive, old school shit. This is way more elegant. We're like mailmen, except in reverse."

"Oh, shit." Mike had learned enough in prison to know how a typical identity theft ring operated. What Viking was telling him that they grabbed mail out of mailboxes in search of credit cards and checks. "That's federal, man. You need to be careful, and think real hard about what you're doing."

Viking's expression soured. "Find me a real job that don't pay shit wages, and you can watch me change into the finest, most upstanding citizen you've ever seen. Until then, I do what I gotta do." He turned on his stool to scowl directly at Mike. "Don't you get it yet? They don't want us to succeed. They tell us we've done our time, but those years inside are only the beginning. Nobody gives a shit what happens to us when we get out. Face it, Jack, you'll be serving your sentence until the day you die. You think you only got four years? Wrong. You got a fucking life sentence."

Mike directed his gaze out the window, shaking his head in denial, even though he suspected Viking was correct. "I can't think that way, man. If I believe that … I don't know. I might as well be back inside."

"Odds are, that's where we'll all end up. Might as well have some fun before that happens." He gave a Mike a punch in the arm probably meant to be playful, but which hurt. "Come with me. Two, three hours of easy work, and you'll come away with a grand. What do you say?"

Letting his gaze go unfocused, Mike could hardly believe he was actually considering it. Two things stopped him. The first was the money sitting in his back account, a buffer between hope and total surrender to despair. The second was the thought of Harvey, and all he had done for him since he found him at the diner, and how disappointed he would be if Mike slipped up now. Harvey’s patience might not last forever, though. The day might come when Mike would need a backup plan.

"Not today," he finally replied. "Can I get your number, though? You know, just in case."

Now Viking gave Mike’s shoulder a rough shake. "Jackmacoy. My man." He scribbled a number on one of Mike's napkins and set the empty glass on one corner. "When you're ready to get real, you give me a call. Gotta go."

Mike watched him exit the pizza place, and then stared down at the phone number for long seconds, committing it to memory before wadding it up and tossing it onto the empty pizza plate. It's not like he planned to call. He'd keep it only as a contingency. He felt guilty, though, like he'd already traveled halfway to doing the deed.

He still had a decent buzz going, and the afternoon stretched ahead of him, long and empty. He'd seen a bar down the block that looked like just the place to cater to the dedicated afternoon drinker. Maybe a drink or two of the strong stuff would wash away the bad taste of his disastrous interview, the unwelcome opinions of Viking, and life in general.

 

******

 

Harvey arrived home at seven-thirty to find Mike sprawled on the couch on his back, snoring like an enraged Wookie. His suit jacket and tie lay crumpled on the floor. He wore one shoe, and his other foot was bare. He was frowning in his sleep, and occasionally grumbling under his breath. Harvey already knew from talking to Ray how the interview had gone. He’d been prepared to deliver a bracing pep talk to Mike, counseling him on patience and perseverance, and all the usual bullshit. He hadn’t expected to find him passed out drunk.

Walking to the kitchen, he set down the bags of takeout food he’d brought with him, pulled one plate out of the cupboard, thought for a second, and grabbed another. He could at least try to get Mike to eat something. When he’d loaded the two plates with Thai food, he carried them into the living room to find Mike awake, and blinking at him blearily.

“Hi,” said Harvey.

“Hey.” Mike struggled into a sitting position and took the plate and fork Harvey handed him, eyeing the food with little enthusiasm. “I’m guessing you already heard?”

Harvey took a seat next to him, half a cushion away. “It was one interview.”

“Out of how many inquiries? I only got it because the owner’s daughter can’t spot a reject when she sees one. I doubt I’ll be getting any more opportunities.”

“Eat your food.” Harvey waited for Mike to take several bites. “You can’t think that way. I’ve heard of people who sent out hundreds of resumes, and went on dozens of interviews, and it still took them six months or more to land something.” He turned his body partway to face Mike, and set his finger on his knee, just a quick touch, there and gone. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve told you the couch is yours for as long as you want or need it, and I meant it. So acknowledge the setback, have some drinks to soften the blow if you need them, and then move on with the expectation that the universe has something better in store for you.”

Mike gave him a skeptical look and shoveled more food into his mouth. “So I’m supposed to wait for the universe to get off its ass and fix things for me? I thought you were more a ‘make your own luck’ kind of guy.”

“You’ve got to put the work in. But, yeah, maybe these last few years have taught me a thing or two.”

“Such as?”

“Such as doors closing, and other, better doors opening to reveal things you never imagined you could have, or that you even knew you wanted.” Abruptly, he stopped talking, stunned by what he had just realized, and had nearly revealed. He took a bite of food to cover his sudden unease. “Anyway. Bottom line is, never give up.”

Mike gave a soft snort of laughter. “Never surrender. What a goddamned nerd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case it went past anyone, the whole bit about "Saturday Night Fever" is in there because Tony Manero, Travolta's character, worked in a paint store. And of course, "never give up, never surrender" is from "Galaxy Quest." Obviously.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

As the days and weeks passed, Mike stuck doggedly to his routine. He checked the new job listings every morning, sent out resumes, and submitted online applications. Both his phone and Craigslist inbox remained depressingly quiet and empty.

He kept a close eye on every penny he spent, but despite his best efforts, his bank account slowly shrank. To stave off boredom, he took in the occasional afternoon movie, or hung out at one of the neighborhood bars, reading a book he’d checked out from the library. He did his best not to feel guilty about these small extravagances, but when his bank balance slipped below a thousand, he cut the extras completely, and his world narrowed down to the library and Harvey's condo.

In many ways, he grew easier with the outside world. He still assessed passing pedestrians for possible threats, but gradually came to assume that most did not represent one. At the same time, he felt nearly as trapped as he had in prison, as walled in and contained. The whole world lay outside of Harvey's door, but lack of funds and lack of purpose kept him locked away inside.

Not that living with Harvey was a hardship, or resembled prison in any way. _Architectural Digest_ worthy furnishings and a million-dollar view definitely beat a cramped cell that smelled like stale piss and unwashed cellmates.

It felt as if he and Harvey had turned a corner. They joked and laughed like they used to. Now, though, the bite had disappeared from their humor. Harvey no longer mocked Mike for his supposed ineptitude, or his taste in clothes, and Mike backed off of the cracks about Harvey’s age. In truth, it seemed to Mike as if the past four years had accelerated his own aging. When he looked in the mirror, he saw the signs of those difficult years in the deeper lines in his face, and the perpetually weary look in his eyes.

Mike appreciated the new, gentler version of Harvey, even if he sometimes missed the breathtakingly ruthless, uncompromising man he’d first met. He liked to think Harvey saved that side of himself for his clients and opponents. In his natural element, he’d always shone so brightly, as sharp and deadly as the edge of a well-honed sword ready for battle.

Mike had stayed with Harvey before, but never for such an extended length of time. During episodes when memories of prison made him feel jittery and off-balance, he wished that Harvey had a spare bedroom. It would have given Mike a place to hide away to deal with his demons. Instead, during the hours when Harvey was home, they were constantly forced into one another's orbit, which proved disconcerting for reasons he never would have guessed.

Mike’s attraction to Harvey had existed since the first time they met, and continued undiminished even during his years with Rachel. The attraction had been only partly sexual. He'd also been drawn to the strong, vibrant presence of the man, to his confidence and wholly justified arrogance. Who wouldn't be drawn to such a bright light?

For a variety of reasons, Mike had forced his feelings far, far down. Harvey Specter liked the ladies, and never had trouble finding someone to share his bed. Aside from that, he was Mike's boss, and hadn't even seemed to like Mike much, at least at the beginning.

Since prison, Mike had ceased thinking in terms of future relationships, or even casual hookups. During his first months at Altona, before he’d found a place for himself in the tricky social hierarchy, he’d been vulnerable to assault, and had become a victim on several occasions when he failed to keep adequate awareness of his surroundings. He’d never said the word – the “r” word – even to himself, but he knew what had happened. He still had nightmares, and the notion of being intimate with anyone, the mere act of picturing it in his mind, caused him to break into a cold sweat.

He’d noticed the looks Harvey had been shooting his way recently. It had surprised and flattered him at first. Once, he might have happily responded to Harvey’s subtle signals, and fallen into bed with him without a single qualm, but now the idea made him both wary and sad. This didn’t stop him from fantasizing about what it might feel like to kiss Harvey, but whenever his fantasies moved beyond kisses, panic overwhelmed him.

This was just another part of his life sentence, he supposed.

Some days it was all so exhausting. Some days, he thought about withdrawing all of the money from his bank account, buying a bus ticket to someplace warm, and putting his past behind him forever. The flaw in that plan was that all too soon, he knew that he’d be right back to the sorry state he'd been in when Harvey found him at the diner.

Other times, he thought about buying a drug strong enough and deadly enough to end the struggle for good. This plan held an even greater flaw. He knew by now that Harvey would miss him, and would blame himself, in spite of all the the many things he had done to help. This realization was enough to keep Mike holding on, going through the motions, and searching for a way to move his life out of the blank, dead space where it was currently suspended.

More and more often, his thoughts turned to Viking, and the job he’d offered to Mike. Just a couple of outings, two or three days’ work, might earn him enough to find a place of his own, get off of Harvey’s couch, and perhaps have the chance to move forward into a relationship with him which wasn’t so imbalanced. Whether that was as a friend, or something more, he couldn’t say. Right now, he felt like a weight tied around Harvey’s neck.

If he was caught, though, he didn't doubt that Harvey would cut him loose permanently. Maybe that would be for the best. He hadn't forgotten what Scottie had told him about the professional hit Harvey had taken just from his past association to Mike. The last thing he wanted to do was to repay Harvey's kindness with that kind of trouble.

So time passed, and he continued to exist in a state of waiting and constant worry.

 

******

 

"I'm sorry, Donna." Harvey sipped his scotch and stared down at the remains of his dinner. "I don't think Mike is ready to see you yet."

"Harvey, look at me." She waited until he complied. "What do you think you're protecting him from?"

He choked back a laugh. "That's not what this is. I'm not protecting him, just respecting his wishes. He said he would think about it. If he wants to see you, he'll let me know."

"Ask him again."

"He's still angry at you."

She rolled her eyes and poured the rest of the bottle of wine into her glass. "He had more cause to be angry at you, and look at you two now. And yes, I realize your offenses turned out to be misunderstandings. To hear you tell it, you guys have regained all the ground lost in the past four years." Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "More than regained, if I'm reading the situation correctly." A pause, and then, "Am I reading it correctly?"

Harvey shook his head, outwardly annoyed, but inwardly relieved that he hadn't had to bring the subject up himself. He needed someone to unload on, and Donna always seemed happy enough to hear him vent. He sighed. "I may, possibly, due to our current living situation, be developing a slight, and entirely hypothetical, attraction to him."

"Developing?" Her guffaw brought several gazes their way from nearby diners. "That kid has been giving you blue balls since the day you met him."

"You're overstating things a little, don't you think? My balls do just fine, and always have."

"Jesus, Harvey. Let's leave your balls out of this."

"You brought them up."

Donna eyed him over the rim of her wine glass. "You should tell him how you feel."

He shook his head decisively. "He's got enough to deal with right now. We need to get his life back on track before we can even consider delving into those waters."

"We?"

"You know what I mean." He drank the rest of his scotch and signaled the waiter for the check. "God, Donna, he's so down on himself right now. The one and only interview he's been granted ended abruptly when the owner found out about his record."

She _tsk_ 'd. "That sort of discrimination is illegal in New York State. He could report them."

"To what end? The guy could give a dozen other reasons for not considering Mike. It may be the law, but it's not realistically enforceable."

"Well, I might be able to help." She smiled at him.

"You?"

"Yes. Invite me to dinner at your place. I'll bring pamphlets."

"Pamphlets?"

She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I may have printed them off the internet, but pamphlety stuff nonetheless."

"You heard me when I said he didn't want to see you yet, right?"

"Went in one ear and right out the other. Invite me to dinner."

At times like this, Harvey wondered why he'd kept her as a friend. "Fine. Come to dinner next Wednesday. If Mike decides he has a pressing engagement elsewhere, you'll be stuck with just me across the table from you."

She gave him a gracious nod. "I accept. And just for the record, you across the table from me? It's not a bad view."

 

******

 

Mike stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, ran a hand through his hair again, and then fiddled with it for another half a minute, flicking it one way, and then the other. He needed a haircut already, but hated the thought of forking over his own money, almost as much as he hated the thought of letting Harvey pay for it again.

His gaze traveled down to his shirt. He'd gained back a little weight, but his old clothes still hung too loosely on him. He tucked the shirt it, changed his mind, and pulled the tails out again, brushing them down to straighten them. He'd heard the doorbell ring five minutes ago, and knew he was stalling. Why had he agreed to this dinner? More importantly, why was he so nervous about seeing Donna again?

"You can do this," he assured his reflection. "You've survived worse." His reflection looked as if it didn't believe him. _Fuck. It wasn't like she was going to shank him._ He was reasonably sure of that, but the last interaction with her had stuck with him. He remembered her anger and scorn. Both were understandable, and he might have been able to let them go, except that she had treated him as if he meant next to nothing to her, and that still stung. He'd viewed her as family, had done everything in his power to help her when she was in trouble, but she had cut him off the instant things went south.

He frowned at the mirror. That was the thing about family. They left you. They died, or betrayed you, or made it clear you didn't matter to them. His parents, Grammy, Trevor, Rachel, Jenny … Everyone but Harvey. Harvey, who was out there putting dinner on the table and wondering what had happened to Mike. He'd do this for Harvey, then, not for Donna.

Treating his hair to one final, dispirited tousle, he went out to face her.

He must have moved silently, because it was several moments before either of them noticed him standing in the living room with his hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans.

Then Donna’s eyes widened, and her lips parted. “Mike,” she breathed. “Oh, sweetie … “ She was across the room to him in a second, arms thrown around his neck, holding him close.

He allowed the hug, but when it had gone on for more than a few seconds, he carefully disentangled himself and stepped away. “Hey,” was the only response he could muster.

Donna’s eyes shone wetly as she stared back at him. She sniffed once and rubbed a hand under her nose. “Well. You don’t look so bad. You could use a haircut.”

Mike’s hand shot up to his head and he patted his hair self-consciously. “I know.” He was supposed to say something back to her, make nice. That was how this worked. “Uh. You look good, Donna. Things must be going well at _Pearson & Litt._”

She nodded. “They are. We’ve had a great year.”

He nodded back at her. “Great.” He was curious about Louis, and Jessica and the rest, but kept those questions to himself for now.

Silence fell, broken finally by Harvey. “Dinner’s ready. Everyone grab a plate. We’ll eat at the table.”

Dinner consisted of steak and vegetables cooked on Harvey’s fancy indoor grill, and dense, doughy multi-grain rolls. They arranged themselves around Harvey’s square dining room table, which felt strange and overly formal to Mike. He and Harvey always ate at the breakfast bar.

Compliments were paid to the chef, and they all tucked in, no one speaking for several minutes. Mike's nerves were jumping badly. He was so unnerved that he drank his wine faster than was advisable, refilling his glass twice before his plate was empty. He'd finished first, and sipped at his wine while waiting for the other two to get done.

“So, Mike,” began Harvey, tossing his napkin onto the table, “Donna brought you some informational materials.”

Mike cast a surprised and wary look at Donna. “Information about what?”

She bit her lip, appearing uncharacteristically diffident. “Oh, just about some things I found online. Some resources you might find useful. Hang on.” She stood and retrieved her handbag from the kitchen counter, rummaging through it as she returned to the table. “Maybe you knew about these already, but Harvey said your job search wasn’t going so great, so ...”

Mike took the small stack of neatly folded pages from her and opened them up to find printouts from various reentry websites. He had come across most of them early on in his on-line job search, and had contacted several of them, only to discover they did not pertain to his situation. The one which seemingly had held the most promise, a job search, training and placement site, he’d rejected outright. They had a waiting list, and he hadn’t wanted to waste weeks going through training, with only the slight hope of being matched to a position at the end of it.

He scanned the printed pages with polite interest, reading about how he could apply for training in the culinary arts and construction. Neither was his dream job, but maybe they could get him off of Harvey’s couch. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to get his name on the list. He had to try something new, because obviously what he was doing now wasn’t getting him anywhere.

“Okay,” he finally said, glancing up to find both her and Harvey watching him closely.

"Aren't you going to thank Donna?" asked Harvey. He was scowling at Mike.

Mike frowned back at him. “I said okay. I'm sure some of these will help. I’ll check into it tomorrow.” He replayed what he'd said in his head, and added, "Thanks, Donna."

Donna and Harvey were both all smiles then, as if some breakthrough had been reached, as if Donna had performed her pre-ordained role, and had swept in to solve all of Mike's problems. For his part, Mike wasn’t about to get his hopes up. He’d spoken with enough recidivists in prison to know that nothing on the outside was simple or easy when you had a record.

Still, he hid his doubts, and changed the subject, asking Donna how Louis was doing.

"He's still Louis. Brilliant one day, and pissing everyone off the next day. He has more money than Harvey these days, and no one to spend it on – except his cats, of course."

Mike's eyebrows lifted. "Cats, plural?"

She nodded, mouth drawn down, but eyes sparkling with humor. "It's a tragic case."

"So, Sheila … ?"

"Never returned from Argentina."

Mike tried to ignore the twinge of guilt this news brought. Louis's relationship with Sheila was just another casualty of his crime. He lapsed into silence, deciding not to ask about Jessica. If his secret had succeeded in destroying her chances with Jeff Malone, that wasn’t a piece of new he wanted to hear at the moment.

They moved to the living room, where they had more wine (or scotch, in Harvey’s case). Harvey and Donna carried the conversation, discussing cases in which they were currently involved, and gossiping about mutual acquaintances. Harvey tried to include Mike, but he had nothing to add, answering only in monosyllables.   Mike caught Harvey a couple of times eying him darkly, which didn't help his already frayed nerves.

He could only sit silently and listen, steadily drinking his way through another bottle of wine, and doing his best to act as if it didn’t hurt to hear in detail about how Harvey and Donna still fully participated in the life that had once been his. He nearly knocked over his glass for a second time, saving it just before it spilled onto the floor. When he reached for the bottle again, he discovered that it was empty.

“Should I open a new one?” asked Donna, rising to her feet.

“I think Mike’s had enough.”

Mike looked over at Harvey, surprised by the censure he heard in his voice. Sudden, hot resentment bubbled up from inside him. “Mike,” he countered, enunciating carefully, “can damn well speak for himself. And Mike would very much like more of this excellent wine. I'm sure Donna would like more as well.”

Donna looked back and forth between them, her expression uncertain. “I’m fine, but I’d be happy to –”

Harvey sighed noisily. “Damn it, Mike. You’re being rude to Donna. She came over here to see you, and you’ve barely spoken a word to her in the last hour. How about participating in the discussion instead of sitting there glowering and sulking.”

The unfairness of that hit Mike hard. He hadn’t asked to see her. She’d basically forced her company on him. “What was I supposed to say? I’m not exactly brimming with small talk these days. You want to hear about my thrilling day? Fine. I got up, went to the library, sent out seven resumes which will be ignored, bought a new toothbrush, thought about buying some socks, but decided I couldn’t afford them. After that, I came back here to sit on your couch, watch movies on your television, snack on your pretzels and beer, and take a piss in your toilet. Now, all I want to do is drink more of your wine so I can make it through the rest of this evening without completely losing my shit.”

He was breathing hard when he finished speaking, and listened to his harsh inhales and exhales echo through the otherwise quiet room.

Harvey laughed softly. "So, what I'm hearing is that you've been drinking since noon. Do I have that right? Is this the best strategy you could come up with to find gainful employment?"

This angered Mike to such an extent that he could barely find the words to respond. “Wow. You just can't help yourself, can you? In case it's escaped your notice, I've been trying, every goddamn day.” He surged to his feet. “You know what? Fuck this shit. I’m going for a walk. You too have fun together.”

Neither one spoke a word to stop him. He grabbed his coat and wallet on the way out the door, weaving a little, but not quite drunk enough to block out the sure knowledge that later, after he’d had a chance to cool down, he would feel deeply ashamed of his childish behavior. Right at that moment, though, he needed space more than he needed to be polite.

It was nearly November, and although the city had not yet experienced its first hard freeze of the season, the steady rain coming down felt ice cold on his skin, both chilling him and sobering him a tiny bit. He felt like crying, but held back his tears from long practice. He couldn’t understand Harvey’s need to cut him off. Mister Swiller of Scotch didn’t have much of a moral high ground when it came to coping through alcohol. Maybe he was simply growing weary of Mike constantly consuming his things, all of which Harvey had bought and paid for. Harvey had never even hinted before tonight that it might be an issue, but clearly it bothered him.

And his not so subtle insinuation that Mike wasn't doing everything he could to dig himself out of the hole he was in … that stung badly.

Mike walked, and stewed, and worked himself into a state of high indignation. Getting a sudden idea, he changed course, and made for the wine shop three blocks from Harvey’s place. He rattled off the name and vintage of the Cabernet Harvey had served tonight, and the clerk located it on the shelf for him.

“I'll take two bottles,” said Mike, and then nearly swallowed his tongue when the clerk rang them up and the total came to over a hundred dollars. Hiding his sick dismay, he pulled out his debit card and swiped it through the card reader.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,_ his mind repeated over and over. Why did Harvey have to have such expensive tastes? Mike had never spent much over ten dollars on a bottle of wine himself, except when he’d been with Rachel. Her palette had been even snootier than Harvey’s.

His pace was slower as he made his way back, painfully aware that he’d just drained another ten percent out of his bank account to satisfy a point of ridiculous pride. The walk and chilly air both helped, though. He was calmer when he got back. The sharp anger had drained away, leaving him weary and depressed. When he let himself into Harvey’s apartment, he wasn’t surprised to discover that Donna had left. Shadows filled the living room, but he could make out Harvey’s seated figure in the middle of the couch, and saw him turn his head to watch Mike when he came in.

"You came back," said Harvey, voice expressionless.

“Were was I going to go? I, uh, I bought some more wine.” Mike hefted the paper bag to illustrate. “Two bottles, same vintage.”

A long sigh from Harvey. “That wasn’t necessary.”

Mike went into the kitchen to put the wine away. “It sort of seemed like it was. For future reference, you don't have to worry. I'll pay for my own alcohol from here on out.”

“That was … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so accusing earlier. You know you’re welcome to anything of mine that you want or need.”

After hanging up his coat, Mike hesitated, and then took a seat on the couch next to Harvey. “And I appreciate that. Look, you’ve been more than patient with me. I get that it’s probably not easy having me here, always around, taking up space, eating your food, drinking your booze, just always … _here_.”

He could see that Harvey wanted to interrupt, so he held up one hand to hold him off. “It’s okay for you to feel that way. You don’t have to feel guilty about what happened to me. You’ve done your penance taking me in, and believe me, if I had any other choice, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.” He leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“Well, thank you so much,” said Harvey, voice heavy with sarcasm, “for explaining to me how I should feel.” He gave a sharp laugh and mirrored Mike’s position, stretching out his legs and resting his hands on the back of his head. “You’re wrong, though. I don’t resent having you here. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s … not unpleasant having someone to come home to. That – what I said earlier – that was nothing. That’s what happens to people in a rel – to people who live in close proximity to one another for a prolonged amount of time. I was out of line, and this is me apologizing. Do us both a favor and just accept the apology.”

Mike shot Harvey a suspicious side eye. Had he almost slipped up and called what they had a relationship? That was hilarious. What they had – what they'd always had – defied definition. Maybe Mike was a still drunk, or maybe the wine had mellowed him. Whatever the case, something gave him the courage to ask, meaning it facetiously, “Gee, Harvey, am I your first live-in boyfriend?"

Harvey choked on his scotch, coughing for several seconds before he got control of himself. "Huh. I suppose you are. Scottie stayed with me for a week once, at Harvard. It was a disaster. Years later, you also stayed with me for a week, which now that I think about it, went much better."

Ignoring the tiny stab of satisfaction at this confession, Mike pressed further, determined not to allow Harvey to ignore the "boyfriend" comment. "This is unprecedented, then. It's been, what, over a month now? So, what are we? What am I to you? An obligation? Is it honor and loyalty that drives you to help me? What?"

"Mike … "

"I mean, I'm curious. Are we friends now? Were we ever friends? At the beginning, for perhaps the first half hour of our acquaintance at the Chilton, I thought that's what we were, or could be, but then it became clear pretty quickly that I'd been laughably far off the mark." He could hear the words spilling out of his mouth, but couldn't seem to stop them.

"I spent months convinced you despised me, or at best held me in amused contempt – when you thought about me at all. And then during my years in prison I believed the worst was confirmed. Which turned out to be a mistake. So I've been thinking about this, because what else is there for me to do but think, right? And I haven't missed the looks you've been giving me lately. You learn how to read people in prison, and how to interpret every micro-expression, because your life sort of depends on it, and I know damn well what it looks like when someone is checking me out, and thinking, and wondering … "

He trailed off, all at once exhausted by the subject matter, and angry with himself for bringing it all out into the open. Next to him, Harvey had gone utterly still. Mike could not even hear him breathing.

"Anyway," continued Mike, desperate to fill the awkward silence, "apparently obscenely expensive wine loosens my tongue in a really embarrassing way." No response from Harvey. "Shit. My turn to apologize."

"No." Harvey sat up straighter and turned partway to face Mike. "No apology necessary." His mouth twitched, and he touched a finger to Mike's knee, not meeting his eyes. "To answer your question, yes, I consider us friends. But you're correct. It's more complicated than that."   He took an extra large gulp of scotch. "We're friends. We were colleagues, sometime allies, sometimes adversaries. Once, I might have said I looked at you like a brother." His finger tap-tapped lightly on Mike's knee. "Not anymore, though." He set down his glass, and now his palm pressed warmly against Mike's leg. "Because I'd never do this with my brother."

Before Mike could guess what he was about to do, Harvey leaned in for a kiss. Without thinking, Mike twitched his head to the side at the last instant, and Harvey's lips caught him on the corner of his mouth.

"Sorry," rasped Harvey, pulling back, rising to his feet, and taking two rapid steps backwards. "God, Mike. I'm sorry."

Unable to meet Harvey's gaze, heart pounding in his chest, Mike nodded jerkily. "Well. I did ask."

"Forget that happened." Harvey snatched up his glass and drank down the rest of his scotch in one noisy gulp. "Fuck. I'm going to bed."

And then he was gone, and Mike sat alone on the couch, lifting one trembling hand to touch the spot on his face where Harvey's mouth had just landed and scorched him like heat lightning. His leg burned too, branded by Harvey's palm. "Shit," he whispered to the empty air. "What just happened?" But he knew. Harvey wanted him. And Mike, as it turned out, wanted Harvey just as badly.  

 

******

 

Harvey stared up at the ceiling, listening to the walls and floors creak and settle for the night, listening to his heart race, and cursing himself for his impulsive actions. What the hell was wrong with him? First he'd snapped at Mike for no good reason, and then had to endure what felt like an eternity of waiting for Mike to return, all the while fearing that he'd scared him away for good. To top it off, he'd tried to kiss him.

He'd felt so absurdly grateful when he heard the key in the lock, and saw Mike walk back in, not looking murderous, not even looking particularly angry anymore. Then Mike started talking, and it had seemed like he was opening another door, but when Harvey tried to walk through it, Mike slammed it in his face.

He was usually more adept at reading signals. This time, though, he'd fucked up. He could hardly blame Mike if he disappeared for good after that fiasco.

Harvey breathed slowly, trying and failing to calm himself. What if Mike hadn't moved his head at the last instant? What if the kiss had landed? How would that have felt?   He closed his eyes, imagining the textures of Mike under his hands, how he might have uttered a soft, acquiescing noise and shifted to lie back, allowing Harvey to move on top of him, fitting their bodies together, deepening the kiss.

Harvey shoved a hand down the front of his pajama bottoms and palmed himself, stroking furiously as pictures of Mike, naked and pliant beneath him, fueled his arousal. His hand sped up, and minutes later, when he came all over himself, making a mess, he clamped his lips together to muffle his low groan. And when he stripped off his pants and wiped himself clean with them, he did his best to ignore the shame he felt at using Mike this way, against his will, even if he never found out.

It wasn't the first time it had happened, and Harvey suspected it wouldn't be the last. As the minutes and hours crawled past, and sleep continued to elude him, he was forced to admit that perhaps the best thing for Mike would be to find somewhere else to stay. With a heavy heart, Harvey began to consider ways he could help Mike achieve that, for Mike's sake – for both of their sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been debating as I've written this story, how much I wanted to get into the details of what Mike went through in prison. I finally came to the conclusion that I needed to get into it a little, since it was not insignificant. In this chapter, I've described Mike's rape in prison. I don't think it's super graphic, but I italicized the section, which starts about a page into the chapter, if you prefer to scroll past. Also, I've added the appropriate warning to the tags.

" _New Horizons Job Source Training."_  

Mike shifted from foot to foot as he stared at the slightly tattered paper sign stuck with yellowing tape to the inside of the grimy window.  Fighting the urge to turn and leave, he sucked in a gulp of cool, damp air and pushed through the front door.  Finding himself in a reception area, he stepped up to the counter. 

"I called earlier.  Mike Ross?" 

The middle aged woman gave him an uninterested glance and shoved a clipboard across the counter.  "Fill that out.  Class starts in half an hour."  

After Mike had completed the (mercifully) brief form and passed it back to the receptionist, she instructed him to take a seat until the class began in twenty minutes.  The waiting area was perhaps one-third full, almost evenly divided between men and woman.  New arrivals straggled in every few minutes.  He could almost smell the stench of prison on every single one of them. 

The purpose of this particular class was, according to the organization's website, "providing the basics of resume-writing, understanding cover letters, navigating the on-line application process, and interview do’s and don’ts."  If Mike could have come up with anything better to do this afternoon, he wouldn’t be here, quite likely wasting his time.   

As he'd discovered following a frustrating foray online, the actual vocational training programs, the ones that sounded as if they might lead to something tangible, had lengthy waitlists.  He'd added his name to the list without much hope or enthusiasm. 

The only reason he was here today, aside from the opportunity to fill some empty time, was the faint hope that he might learn something to help him with the whole interview conundrum – if he ever managed to score another interview.   

As he glanced around at his fellow ex-cons, and his mind did its usual hamsters-on-a-wheel thing, he slid down in his seat, sipping the coffee he’d brought with him, zoning out a little, trying for those few minutes not to think and obsess about his future. 

Predictably, his thoughts went straight to that kiss – or almost kiss – last night.  He replayed it over and over again in his mind, sometimes changing the outcome, not jerking his mouth away at the last instant, sinking into it, seeing where it might lead. 

He shuddered.  He did not want to consider what came next.   

What did Harvey want from him?  What did he expect?  Did he believe Mike owed him something for all of the free room and board and meals?  He bounced that notion around in his head for a few minutes, let the hamsters take a pass at it, before firmly rejecting it.  If Harvey wanted him, if he wanted Mike in his bed, it had nothing to do with settling accounts.  In fact, Mike was pretty sure that Harvey considered the ledger heavily weighted in Mike's favor at the moment.   

Which meant that Harvey wanted him, full stop.  Which was … insanity. 

How long had he felt that way?  There had been a time or two, or more, over the years, when Mike had been left wondering.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, Harvey presented as firmly and aggressively heterosexual.  Every so often, though, a word, or a suggestive leer, or a tone of voice led Mike to entertain the possibility that Harvey would be receptive to a tumble in bed with him – or on his desk, or in one of the file rooms.   

He might have gotten himself off more than once from imagining how it might be with Harvey, how expert he would be, coldly aloof and a little rough, ordering Mike around and making him do … _things._   Never had Mike thought those fantasies could become reality.  Otherwise, he might have initiated long ago.  He might have had to get drunk first, to drum up the courage, but he would have gone there before pursuing Rachel, if he thought he'd stood a chance. 

Was that true?  Or was it just something he wanted to believe because of how things had ultimately turned out with Rachel? 

He grimaced, crumpled up his empty cup and made an arcing shot to land it in the waste basket across the room. 

“Nice shot, Jackmacoy.” 

He froze.  He recognized the raspy tenor coming from behind him as something he'd thought he'd heard for the last time in Altona.  Moving slowly, as if suspended inside some sort of viscous fluid, Mike turned his head to verify what he already knew, and his entire body went ice cold.  That face had haunted his nightmares too many times for him to forget.  His stomach seemed to flip over inside him.  The brightly colored plastic chairs and motivational posters faded away, and just like that, he was trapped inside a memory. 

_He remembered a morning in Altona,_ _when he was_ _on his way to his work assignment,_ _hurrying because he was late_ _, his mind on something else, something trivial,_ _not paying attention like he should have been._ _A_ _quick shove_ _caught him_ _from_ _behind, a_ _pillowcase w_ _as_ _w_ _hisked over his_ _head, and_ _several_ _sets of hands_ _dragged him into a small room which_ _, after it was all over, he discovered w_ _as_ _a supply closet.  He never knew_ _for sure_ _the exact number of m_ _en_ _holding him down._ _He heard his own ragged_ _breathing, heard_ _himself_ _begging_ _.  He mind descended into_ _a swirling storm of chaos and disbelief_ _, and_ _self-recrimination_ _._  

_They were careful not to rip his clothes_ _as they undress_ _ed_ _him_ _._ _He tried to jerk and twist free, but t_ _hey held him_ _immobile, and_ _his shirt and pants and underwear and even his socks came off piece by careful piece.  None of his attackers spoke a word. It was if they had rehearsed this, or done it so many times before that no verbal communication w_ _a_ _s needed._ _He tried to yell for help, and they lifted up the bottom of the pillowcase_ _to gag him with one of his socks._  

_They each took a turn with him, no lube, no condoms, just grunts and thrusts and breathless laughter.  Just tearing_ _pain, and_ _the smell of bleach and_ _lemon, a_ _nd filthy words whispered against his ear,_ _a_ _nd_ _cold metal shelving digging into his_ _ribs_ _, leaving_ _bruises_ _that would take weeks to fade_ _._ _The only sounds he made_ _we_ _re animal grunts and choked back_ _sobs, muffled_ _by wadded cotton._  

_He never would have know_ _n_ _the identity of his attackers,_ _might_ _have spent three years and eight months in an agony of wondering if someone he_ _’d_ _passed in the yard, or who made brief eye contact with him across the mess hall, was the man who had bit his shoulder so hard he bled, or the one who whispered, "that's it, sweetheart … that's it," while he tore Mike's insides open._  

_He might have never known, but w_ _hen they released him from the infirmary four days later, in the middle of his first meal back in general population_ _(left uneaten)_ _, an inmate stepped up behind him and softly, for his ears only, mimicked the sounds Mike had made while they were raping him._  

_Mike had noticed him before, a medium tall guy,_ _possessing_ _a stocky build_ _,_ _a shaved head,_ _and_ _dark eyes in an otherwise unremarkable face.  He seemed always to be in the company of three other_ _men, and_ _later_ _Mike_ _put it together that_ _these were his other attackers_ _.  In the days that_ _followed,_ _the_ _way they smirked at him whenever he_ _dared make_ _eye contact convinced him of it.  He did his best not to make eye contact._  

_He’d lived in_ _constant_ _fear of a replay for the next five_ _months_ _.  He learned to pay attention to his surrounding, and to take nothing for granted._ _That didn’t stop him from_ _gett_ _ing beat_ _en_ _up_ _with depressing regularity,_ _and_ _ending up in the infirmary twice more_ _,_ _until his_ _hidden talent for untangling_ _complex_ _legal problems was discovered, and his_ _status improved_ _._  

_L_ _ater, when_ _Romeo, the_ _closest thing to a friend he had on the_ _inside, climbed_ _into Mike’s bunk one evening and offered to blow_ _him, he_ _allowed_ _it, and_ _then_ _jerked him off in_ _return, and_ _hardly thought about that hour in the supply_ _closet_ _,_ _although_ _he’d wept hot_ _, salty_ _tears_ _after lights out_ _, quietly_ _and_ _surreptitiously,_ _into_ _his pillow._   

Now, four years later, the hairs on the back of Mike's neck were standing on end because he recognized the man’s voice, and recognized his flat dark eyes and sneering smile. 

“Jackmacoy,” purred the man – Bullet, Mike remembered – his gaze traveling up and down Mike’s body.  “Looking good.  How’s life treating you on the outside, my man?” 

Mike actually sputtered, so startled was he.  Incredulous at the man’s friendly attitude, he glared back at him, stammering and tripping over the words he wanted to say. 

His shock did not last for long.  White hot rage settled over him.  He rose slowly to his feet.  His hands curled into tight fists, and he imagined them driving forward, one after the other, to pummel Bullet’s stomach and chin, and his stupid, leering face, until bone snapped and flesh split and blood flowed freely, red and sticky and fragrant.  He growled, savage and deadly.  Bullet took a step back, eyes wide. 

Mike began to tremble.  He tightened his jaw and reminded himself to think of the consequences of losing control.  The police would likely be called.  He would be arrested for assault.  ( _Or murder.  Murder is_ _better,_ his sizzling anger insisted.)  He was a felon, not a first time offender.  He’d go back to prison.  Maybe Scottie would make good on her words and arrange to have him sent somewhere worse than Altona, if such a place existed. 

Still, he couldn’t simply leave without doing something.  He took a step forward, his shaking finger pointing straight at Bullet’s face, feeling a primitive sort of joy at the alarm he’d brought to the other man’s face.   

“If you ever,” he began, low and furious, while he stabbed his finger forward several times, savoring every flinch Bullet made.  “If you ever see me again, on the street, at a restaurant, in a men’s room, anywhere, you keep your fucking mouth shut.  Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, don’t come near me, not ever again, or I swear I will stick my fingers in your eyes and rip your stupid, fucking ugly bald head right off your shoulders and stomp on it until your brain squirts out your ears.”  He paused, breathing harshly in and out for several seconds.   “We clear?” 

Bullet stared back, as if it was slowly dawning on him that he was in the presence of a dangerous mad man.  His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.  Mike realized then that every eye in the room was on him, including those of the receptionist, who had her phone in her hand. 

Mike jabbed his finger at Bullet one more time, snapped his mouth shut on all the words that wanted to spew forth, and whirled to leave.  He kicked at the door on his way out, and stomped down the sidewalk unaware of other people, or his surroundings, or anything besides his inner turmoil.  When the chaos in his head finally settled enough to allow semi-coherent thought back in again, he scanned the block he was on and located the nearest bar.   

Inside the gloomy interior, he ordered a beer, changed his mind and ordered a Macallan 18, refusing to examine his motives for the switch too closely.  He gulped half of it down and grimaced at the burn.  Once he’d sipped his way through the rest of the glass, his trembling had stopped, so he gestured for another.  After his third drink, he ordered a fourth, and a basket of garlic fries.  As he ate, he downed his drink slowly, deciding that getting blind drunk was not the best plan.  He still needed to find his way home. 

Home.  Could he even call it that, really?  It was a loaded word, wasn’t it?  He wasn’t even sure anymore what it meant.  Since his parents had died, every other place he’d lived had felt like a poor substitute.  His grandmother did her best.  Her apartment had been a refuge, but despite her good intentions, he still felt adrift in the world.   His years with Trevor had been a frantic, crazy blur.  Their apartment had been where he ate and slept and shit, but it had never felt like home.   

And Rachel … well, they’d tried.  He’d tried.  They’d assembled all of the props, the furniture and dishes and cutlery and linens and tchotchkes necessary to simulate a home.  With all of that, _Pearson_ _Specter and Litt_ had felt more like home than that overpriced apartment they’d shared for nearly two years. 

Now … Harvey’s place had felt safe, and like a refuge.  As awkward as Mike’s presence there sometimes seemed, and as much as the notion of being beholden to Harvey for so much weighed on him, he had been content enough to continue as they were for the foreseeable future.   

He fingered his half-empty glass, rotated it first one way and then the other on the bar top.  After last night, he wasn’t so sure how safe he was at Harvey’s place.  He took a sip of the scotch, trying and failing to understand Harvey’s near-worship of the stuff.  Still, when he’d licked the last drops out of the glass, he caught the bartender’s attention and pointed at it.  He carried the bottle over to Mike, but hesitated before pouring. 

“You sure you want another?” 

Mike didn’t think he appeared drunk, although he was definitely feeling the four drinks.  “Yeah.  I’m pretty sure.” 

The young man shrugged and tipped the bottle to pour Mike’s shot.  “It’s just …”  He made a vague gesture toward Mike’s clothes.  “No offense, but are you sure you can afford it?” 

“I have money,” he protested, and then added, “how much is this stuff?” 

“Thirty bucks a shot.” 

Mike tried not to react, but judging by the amused grin the bartender gave him, he’d probably gone a few shades paler.  _Shit.  Shit_ _shit_ _shit._    

He took a slow deliberate sip.  “Maybe you’d better cash me out.”  While the bartender waited, he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and yanked out his debit card, practically throwing it across the bar.  Maybe he would have been better off sticking around at New Horizons and beating the stuffing out of Bullet.  He would have felt better, and he wouldn’t have wasted one hundred and fifty dollars – plus the fries, plus tax and tip – on a buzz he barely felt.  He signed the slip, adding precisely twenty percent for the tip, and tucked his card safely away. 

When he slid off his bar stool, he wobbled slightly and caught himself on the bar, which caused him to smile grimly to himself.  Maybe he’d gotten his money’s worth after all. 

 

****** 

 

Mike wasn’t around when Harvey got home.  He set down the bags of takeout and the pages he’d printed off earlier, and went to his bedroom to change out of his suit.  He’d spent part of the day, with Donna’s help via phone call, checking out transitional housing options for Mike.  She’d asked him why, and he’d confessed to his stupid impulse of the night before. 

“Oh, Jesus,” she replied, laughter threading her voice.  “You really stepped in it, didn’t you?” 

“We were having a moment.  I thought.  Turns out, I thought wrong.  I may have been a tiny bit drunk.” 

“You’re positive he wasn’t into you?” 

“Donna, I haven’t seen anyone react that quickly since you put the moves on that visiting lawyer from – ” 

“Stop right there.  We agreed never to speak of that again.” 

“Sorry.”  He frowned down at his desk.  “Anyway, it was evasive action, so yeah, not into me.  God, I wish I could take it back.  He looked so panicked, and he barely spoke two words to me this morning.” 

“And your response is to kick him out?” 

“No.  I only intend to give him some options.  The last thing I want is for him to feel trapped there.” 

“Right.  You sure you’re not the one feeling trapped?” 

He thought of telling her to shut up, but she’d heard that so many time before from him that it didn’t even register anymore.  “Anything but,” he finally admitted.  “I hope he doesn’t go.  I’ll give him the choice, though, and leave it up to him.” 

She wished him luck and ended the call.  Harvey grabbed the pages he’d printed, tapped them into a neat pile, and stuck them in his briefcase. 

Now, he finished changing, opting for pajama pants and t-shirt.  He was exhausted after lying awake most of the previous night, and intended on making an early night of it, after he had something to eat.  He went back out to the kitchen and saw that Mike had arrived home.  He was sitting on the couch, slumped forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbing his face, appearing as exhausted as Harvey felt.  He looked up, and when he caught sight of Harvey, he frowned. 

“Hey,” said Mike. 

“Hey yourself.  You hungry?  I brought dinner.” 

“I ate some solid gold French fries earlier.”  He stood up and drifted into the kitchen 

“Huh. Sounds crunchy.  Maybe you should try some of this salad.”  He peered more closely at Mike.  “Are you drunk?” 

“Sadly, no.” 

Harvey took down two plates from the cupboard.  Despite Mike’s protest, he began filling one for each of them.  “Your breath tells a different story.” 

Mike took his usual seat at the counter and stared morosely down at the plate Harvey set in front of him. 

“How was the class?” asked Harvey, sitting across from him. 

“I didn’t go.” 

“Mike … “ 

“What?”  He bit out the word, snapping off the final “t.” 

“Nothing.”  Harvey dug his fork into his polenta lasagna and shoveled food into his mouth to prevent – or at least delay – the argument he felt brewing between them.  Across from him, Mike poked at his food, but didn’t eat any of it.  Harvey had forgotten about the printouts until Mike reached over and dragged them towards himself, unfolding them to see what Harvey had left on the counter.  Harvey opened his mouth to say something, to explain, to soften the blow, but by then it was already too late. 

“What,” said Mike slowly, “the fuck?”  He flipped rapidly through the pages and raised his gaze to pin Harvey with a reproachful glare.  “You’re kicking me out?” 

“No.  No, Mike.”  Harvey set his fork down.  “I’m absolutely not forcing you out.  I just wanted you to know that you have choices.  I’ve said repeatedly that you’re welcome to stay here, and I meant it.  I still mean it.  I just …”  He pressed his lips together, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact when Mike was looking at him like that, so wounded and vulnerable.  “It’s entirely in your hands.  Okay?” 

Mike nodded slowly.  “Yeah.  Okay.”  He finally took a miniscule bite of lasagna, chewed slowly, and swallowed as if it pained him to do so.  “Look, about last night …” 

“Good,” Harvey cut in, glad that the subject had been brought up.  “Let’s talk about that.  I’m sorry I kissed you.” 

One corner of Mike’s mouth quirked up.  “It wasn’t much of a kiss.” 

“Not my best work, I’ll admit.”  He grimaced.  “Or my best moment.” 

Mike held his gaze for several seconds, mouth working slightly, as if he wanted say something but wouldn’t allow it to escape.  “Apology accepted.”  His mouth seemed to creak from disuse as it curved up into a smile.  “Your crime was a minor one, as crimes go.”  He gave a sharp laugh.  “Time served.” 

Harvey’s answering laugh was uncertain.  “You sure you want to let me off that easy?” 

“Yeah.”  Mike’s shoulders drooped and he yawned.  “This day really took it out of me.  I’m gonna hit the … couch.” 

Harvey’s appetite had disappeared, but he forced himself to chew and swallow what was left on his plate.  He cleaned up after that, his movements mechanical.  As he passed Mike on the way to his bedroom, he glanced down.  Mike’s eyes were opened, fixed on the ceiling, or perhaps beyond it, looking through the roof, up into the sky and the distant stars.  He appeared deeply troubled.  Harvey thought about questioning him, trying to get him to open up, but he sensed this would not be welcome, so he continued walking, and let him be. 

 

****** 

 

The next morning, Mike glared down at his phone, as if the small device was at fault, and not Mike, or Harvey, or society.  He had tapped the number in five minutes ago, but balked at hitting send.  What choice did he have, though?  Harvey didn’t want him here anymore.  He’d had a taste of transitional housing, and while New Hope hadn’t been awful, it was full of ex-cons like Viking, and worse, like Bullet.  He’d pissed away nearly half the money from his storage unit.  Finding a job seemed like a mirage, or a fever dream.  What he needed, now, immediately, was enough cash to get him out of town, away from Harvey, away from his past, and out of the reach of Scottie’s wrath. 

Feeling a bit like he was jumping off a cliff, he hit send and waited for his phone to connect. 

“Viking,” came the sleep-rough voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hey, it’s Mike.  Jackmacoy.  If you’ve still got a job for me, I’m in.” 

He held the phone away from his ear while Viking let out a deafening roar that Mike decided was a yawn. 

“Fuck yeah, Jackmacoy.  We’re going on a run this afternoon.  Can you meet at noon, at that pizza place I saw you in last time?” 

“Sure.”  He felt sick as he agreed, but he’d made up his mind, and wouldn’t back down now.  “I’ll be there.” 

“Right on.  See you soon.” 

Mike resumed glaring at his phone.  It had no words of wisdom or solace to offer him, so he went to pull his duffel bag out of the closet and paw through it, wondering what sort of attire was appropriate for doing crimes in suburbia. 

 

****** 

 

After the first half hour, it got easier.  He pushing down the gnawing guilt, and strolled down the quiet street, trying to look as if he belonged there, grabbing envelopes from mail boxes, flicking through to find credit card offers, checks, anything official looking, and the holy grail, new debit or credit cards.  He left the ads and other junk mail in place, and continued on. 

A Lexus drove past.  The woman driving it waved and smiled, and he waved back, watching her pull into a driveway down the block.  He had a license renewal notice and a check to the power company from her mailbox in his messenger bag.  He sighed and turned away, heading for the next mailbox down the street.  Mrs. Lexus had a nice house.  She could afford to share.  And, as Viking had pointed out several times on the drive up here, they weren't stealing from her, just using her information to steal from big corporations who could afford it. 

"You know, don't you," said Viking, gesticulating wildly with one hand as he drove, "that most of those corporation don't even pay taxes?  That's nuts, right?  We're coming at them like Robin Hood, not even stealing, just getting them to pay their fair share for once.  It's like a social program.  Like … like … the safety net guys like you and I used to have, but don't anymore because these stupid-rich jack-offs decided they didn't have enough private jets and yachts to fill up that big black hole inside of themselves." 

Viking could really get going when he was on a roll.  Mike had nodded politely and watched the scenery pass by out the window of the rented van, trying to believe all of Viking's rationalizations.  What he really believed was that he was about to commit a felony, and if he got caught, that would be it for him.  Game over.   

Despite that constant worry, he had to admit that the view out the window was nice.  He cringed when he saw the exit for Altona, but Viking kept heading north, and now Mike was further from home than he'd ever been before, and everywhere he looked he saw space, and room to breathe.  The flashy show put on by the turning autumn leaves was nearly over.  Only a few stubborn brown leaves clung to bare branches, fluttering in a fitful, chilly breeze. 

Someday, he promised himself, if he ever reached a place in his life where it was possible, he'd come back up here earlier in the season to sightsee, and drink apple cider, and buy cases of maple syrup.  For now, he was a predator.  His job was to infiltrate and gather whatever he could of value.  They were like termites, he and the half a dozen other shifty looking men and women in the van.  They would fan out and take tiny, targeted bites out of people's life and privacy, sneaking and hiding so that their victims didn't realize how shaky the foundations of their lives had become until they collapsed beneath them. 

But it was the corporations that would pay, according to Viking.  Mike snorted as he shoved three more envelopes in his bag.  He had a cover story, if anyone questioned him.  He could pull out a stack of religious pamphlets from his bag and pretend to spread the good word, a surefire antidote for nosy neighbors. 

Hours later, when Viking dropped him off back near the pizza place, Mike headed for the closest bank ATM and deposited ten crisp one hundred dollar bills into his account.  The job had been as easy as advertised.  They'd be heading out again in two days, to a different neighborhood in a different state.  Ten thousand dollars, Mike decided.  That's what he'd aim for.  Ten outings.  One down and nine to go.  Once his bank account was stuffed full with all of that beautiful, dirty money, he'd pick a spot on the map and buy a bus ticket out of town. 

He'd always wanted to see the rest of the country, but had never had the chance before.  The thought of leaving Harvey made him ache, but any way he looked at it, he could not envision a future together.  Maybe, before he took off … He tried to picture climbing into bed with Harvey, but he couldn't bring it into focus.  Whenever he got close, the picture blurred and morphed into a dark closet filled with shadowy forms, and he was screaming into a balled up sock stuffed into his mouth. 

He realized he'd been standing at an intersection, staring blindly ahead of himself, for who knew how long, and didn't even remember walking the five or six blocks it would have taken to arrive here.  He used to lose chunks of time like that in prison, but it hadn't occurred for a year or more.  At least he hadn't been in the middle of the intersection when it happened.  Still, it was a stupid thing to do, out here in the busy city where he was vulnerable to anyone wishing to do him harm. 

_Just don't let it happen again,_ he lectured himself sternly. 

The light turned, and he surged forward in sync with the clump of pedestrians, careful not to let anyone touch him.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> A quick note on my two other WIP's -- I've decided to work on this story first, so I can finish it (so the plan goes) before the new season starts. After that, I'll probably forge ahead with Found You, and finish that before I return to Discerning Eye, since that one is the trickiest, and I want to do it as right as I can. That is the plan for now. Apologies etc. Believe me, I've learned my lesson on the whole WIP thing ... although I feel like I've said that before. 
> 
> Kids, don't post more than one WIP at a time. Don't let your friends post more than one WIP at a time. Hahaha. Or do whatever you want. Obviously.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos thus far!

Mike heaved a weary sigh as he waited for his deposit receipt to print.  When it finally appeared, he yanked it out and stared down at the new balance:  $5,732.  Halfway there.  He'd been out on five runs with Viking and the crew in the last three weeks.  Either he'd been lucky, or perhaps moved faster than the rest of them, but Mike’s haul had surpassed everyone one else’s every time. 

_Yay, me,_ he thought sourly when Viking shared that information with him.  If Mike was anything, he was and always had been a successful criminal, expect for the getting caught part.  He didn't plan to stick around long enough for that part of the career arc this time.  Five more trips into the dark heart of suburbia, and then he was gone.  He didn't mention that to Viking, who was already hinting at promotions, and ladder climbing. 

Mike flagged down a cab and gave the driver Harvey's address.  He'd been on his feet for half the day, trudging through scenic little neighborhoods, past immaculate lawns and perfectly painted houses, spreading corruption in his wake.  He sometimes pictured himself as a nasty little slug, oozing along and leaving behind a trail of slime.  Good times. 

It was past eight o'clock when the taxi pulled up in front of Harvey's building.  Mike paid his fare and got out, and only then noticed the familiar black town car idling at the curb just ahead of the cab.  One of the back doors opened and Harvey climbed out.  Mike gave him a half wave, surprised to see him home this early.  Harvey had been putting in a lot of late nights in the past weeks.  This had helped ease some of the tension between them:  it was harder to get into a fight when Mike was asleep – or could pretend to be asleep – by the time Harvey got home. 

Their paths converged at the front door, where Harvey shot him a curious side eye, and held the door open for him.   

“Out for your evening constitutional?” he asked Mike. 

He didn’t sound suspicious, just annoyingly flippant.  Mike could have pointed out the obvious fact that he'd just gotten out of a cab, but decided to let it go.  “No,” he replied, not meeting Harvey’s eyes.  “I picked up a little temp work, helping some guy move.” 

“Yeah?  That’s great.”  The elevator door slid shut and the car began its smooth glide upwards.  “How did you find that?” 

“Craigslist,” he lied.   

They both remained silent for the rest of the ride.  Inside Harvey’s condo, Mike headed to the kitchen to browse the refrigerator for dinner possibilities,  while Harvey retreated to his bedroom to change his clothes.   Mike pulled out containers of leftover Chinese food and a salad which still appeared marginally edible. 

Harvey appeared again, wearing the blue plaid pajama pants that clung to his ass, and a dark blue henley.  Mike had to force himself not to stare.  “You want some of this kung pao chicken and fried rice?” he asked him. 

Harvey wrinkled his nose, but nodded his assent.  “One of us really should learn how to cook,” he grumbled. 

“I’m on the waiting list.”  Mike spoke without thinking, and regretted it immediately when he saw the surprised look on Harvey’s face. 

“Are you serious?” 

He was, but it ultimately wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be around by the time he got moved off of the waitlist.  It was kind of too bad, because professional chef it didn’t sound like such a bad career, considering.  It was honest work, something which, based on his history, was evidently not in his wheelhouse.  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he shot back, not sure why he was defending his fictional future job. 

Harvey shrugged and took a seat at the counter, apparently not wishing to escalate.  Mike could feel Harvey’s eyes on him as he heated up the food and filled two plates.  “Beer?” he asked Harvey.  “Wine?  Scotch?” 

“One beer.”  He laid a hand on his stomach, frowning.  “Gotta cut back.  I’m starting to develop a gut.” 

Mike peered at Harvey’s flat mid-section and shook his head.  “You look fine from where I’m standing.”   

His words hung between them for several seconds, reverberating in the thick silence.  The next sound was the soft clunk of the plates on the counter.  Mike sat and shoveled food into his face without tasting it. 

_You look fine from where I’m standing._   Where was the lie?  Harvey looked amazing, as always.  Sure, the intervening years had brought some changes, crow's feet and one or two grey hairs, but he was aging well.  Maybe his body had thickened somewhat, but Mike would be willing to bet that it was almost all muscle.  He could ask Harvey if he could perform a quick inspection, to satisfy his curiosity.   

He felt his cheeks heating at the direction his thoughts had taken.  The image of Harvey with his shirt off – with everything off – had planted itself and wouldn’t let go.  Mike’s dick began to plump, and he was grateful to have the width of the counter between them to hide the visible proof of his interest. 

“You want me to grab it?” asked Harvey. 

Mike’s head jerked up and he stared at Harvey, blushing.  “Excuse me?” 

“The beer.  You forgot it.” 

“Oh.”  Normally, Mike would have been up in an instant to retrieve two bottles from the refrigerator.  In his current condition, it seemed like a bad idea.  “Sure.  If you don’t mind?” 

Harvey stood without comment, retrieved two beers, and returned to the counter with them.  They both drank, and ate their food, and Mike imagined he could hear every chew and swallow and scrape of fork against plate. 

Maybe Harvey also felt the weight of the silence between them, because he finally spoke.  “At the risk of stirring the pot, have you given any thought to those transitional housing leads?” 

Mike’s appetite, questionable to begin with, disappeared entirely.  He set his fork down.  “I didn't realize there was a deadline.” 

“There's not.  I was just curious.” 

Mike’s brows lowered as he tried to work out what lay behind Harvey’s question.  “I’m, uh, exploring my options, but I imagine I’ll be out from underfoot in about a month.” 

Harvey’s dark gaze grew troubled at this news, but he nodded and continued to pick at his food.  “I see.  Well, I expect you to remain in touch.  Never hesitate to come to me if you need any help.” 

“Harvey …” 

“I mean it, Mike.  Despite what you might think, you’re not alone in this.” 

Harvey’s words were kind, and well meaning, but a familiar curl of resentment stirred inside of Mike nonetheless.  Easy enough for Harvey to say, but he hadn’t been the one in prison.  He hadn’t gone through the things Mike had.  And he still got to get up every morning and go to a job he loved.  His tone was sharper than he intended when he replied, “Aren’t I?” 

Harvey sighed, something he’d been doing a lot of lately, Mike realized.  “If you’d talk to me … just tell me what you need.” 

_A job.  A life.  A time machine.  A pill to flush all of his memories away._ “Look, Harvey, you can’t get inside my head, so don’t even bother trying.  I’m doing the best I can here, but that place did things to me.  You can’t begin to imagine – ”  He clamped his mouth shut to prevent any more words from escaping, and then jumped when Harvey leaned across the counter to place a hand on his arm. 

“I’m not blind.  I can see that something is troubling you.  I know it’s not easy, but maybe if you opened up to me it would help.  I’m not saying I can fix it, but sharing your worries can sometimes drain a little of their power.” 

“I don’t have worries,” Mike said faintly, trying to ignore the heat of Harvey’s hand on his arm.  “I did once, and then they all came true.  Sharing that with you won’t solve a goddamn thing.  It’ll just … I don’t know … I'm afraid it would taint you too.  I don’t want to do that to you.” 

Harvey was staring at him, his dark eyes so intently focused on Mike that it was making him dizzy. 

“Then not me,” Harvey said.  “Talk to a professional, someone who’s trained and knows what they’re doing.”  He removed his hand and shifted his gaze to the countertop.  “I know someone.  She helped me out when I was having those panic attacks.  Do you remember those?” 

Of course Mike did.  He’d witnessed one of Harvey’s attacks, and it had shocked him to his core.  Harvey had always seemed so solid, so strong and invulnerable.  It shouldn’t surprise him now to find out that Harvey had gone to see a therapist back then, but it did.  The truth was, when his own life had gone so suddenly to hell, he’d been too focused on his case to worry about Harvey’s mental health.  Realizing that now shamed him a little.  He gave Harvey a pinched look. 

“I remember.  You scared the shit out of me.  Are … did she, uh, fix you or whatever?” 

“I fought her tooth and nail to begin with.  When I finally got my head far enough out of my ass to hear her, things got better.”  He was staring at Mike again.  “I can give you her number.”  After a moment, he added, “I’ll pay for it.” 

Mike would have rejected the idea outright, but he wasn’t going to be around much longer, and he couldn’t see the point of throwing Harvey’s offer back in his face.  “I don’t know.  I’m not ready to talk.  I will think about it, though.  Maybe eventually …” 

“Fair enough.”  Harvey finished his beer and licked his lower lip, drawing Mike’s gaze to his mouth.  He forced himself to look away.  “Want to watch a movie before bed?” asked Harvey, oblivious to Mike's discomfort. 

“Sure.  Something with superheroes and lots of explosions sounds good.” 

They moved to the couch, sitting side by side.  The tension of a day spent in criminal pursuits gradually dissipated as Mike settled in for two hours of movie therapy.  These rare interludes with Harvey were about the only thing Mike looked forward to these days.  He drank his way through three beers while the predictable Hollywood plot unfolded onscreen.    He crossed his arms over his chest to keep himself from reaching over to touch Harvey as his eyes grew heavy. 

 

****** 

 

Harvey had fallen asleep well before the world got saved by the men and women in spandex with daddy issues, and so, it seemed, had Mike.  When Harvey startled awake to see the credits rolling, he found Mike slumped over with his head on Harvey’s shoulder, and one hand on his upper thigh, holding on as if to prevent his escape. 

Resisting the urge to comb his fingers through Mike’s mussed hair, or make any other movement that would wake him, he slowly turned his head to study him close up, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the ferocious scowl, and the quick little twitches he made, as if caught inside a nightmare.  At least his color was good.  It looked as if he’d been getting some sun, which was a neat trick in Manhattan, with winter just around the corner. 

He lowered his gaze to Mike’s mouth, reluctantly remembering the disastrous kiss, and wishing, as he had often these past weeks, for a do-over.  Mike’s eyes fluttered open.  He caught Harvey staring, and lifted his head, staring back, face inches from Harvey's.  He seemed not to notice where his hand was, and Harvey didn’t mention it. 

“What?” asked Mike sleepily. 

To Harvey, he appeared softer like this, rumpled, a little confused, less anxious and more approachable than he’d been for a long while. 

“I want to ask you something,” Harvey murmured on an impulse, “and I don’t want you to freak out.” 

“Okay,” Mike agreed.   

Harvey almost lost his nerve.  He’d sworn to himself that he would give Mike plenty of space, and wouldn’t place any additional pressure on him.  He debated rapidly with himself, and came to the conclusion that he could hardly drive Mike any further away, or destroy their chances any more than he already had.  Plus, his curiosity over what Mike would taste like, and what sounds he might make, was years in the making.  As he hesitated, he grew certain that he glimpsed a similar curiosity mirrored in Mike’s eyes. 

Thinking that he might not get another chance, he abandoned caution, screwed up his courage, and said, “I want to kiss you.  I want to get it right this time.” 

Mike was quiet for so long, his eyes wide and blue and unreadable, that Harvey began regretting the request.  What had he been thinking?  But then Mike blinked slowly and licked his lips.  “Is that all you want?” 

“What?” asked Harvey, caught off guard.  Of course he knew the answer to the question, which was, _I_ _want so much more_.  He was not prepared to admit that, however, even though it must have been obvious. 

Mike withdrew his hand from Harvey’s thigh and sat up straighter, which put a small amount of distance between them.  “I said, is that all you want from me?  Or would you expect something more?  Because I don’t think I can give that to you.” 

Harvey tilted his head to one side, caught by something he’d heard, a tiny catch in Mike’s voice, and a thread of desperation buried underneath the careless tone.  “Why not?” 

Mike laid his head on the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling.  “I’m just … I’m tired, Harvey.  I’m poison.  I’m not the person you should have in your life, and the sooner I’m gone from here, the better it will be for you – for the both of us.” 

“Mike …”  As he often did with Mike these days, Harvey felt at a loss.  “First of all, I disagree with everything that just came out of your mouth.  You are not poison.  You’re a good man.  And I think I’m more than capable of deciding who I want in my life.” 

Mike’s brow wrinkled and he let out a cynical sounding laugh.  “You can’t seriously want to … what … _date_ me?  Or did you just want to fuck me?” 

Harvey gave an inward groan.  “Okay, this went south in a hurry.  Obviously I made a mistake.  Just forget I said anything.  Forget we had this conversation.”  He started to push to his feet, but Mike’s hand latched onto his arm, holding him down. 

“What’s the matter, Harvey?  Didn’t quite think things through, did you?  If you say you only want to fuck, that puts you in sort of a bad light doesn’t it?  But can you even imagine the scene it would cause if you actually brought me to the firm holiday party?  Yeah, I can see that you’re not exactly on board with that idea.  Then again, maybe you figured I could be your dirty little secret.” 

Harvey found himself growing angry, and unfairly judged, as Mike’s bitter accusations spilled out.  “I never implied anything of the kind.  I don’t know where you’re getting all this bullshit, except in your own messed up mind.  I’ve been nothing but patient with you.  Maybe you should try to be just a little bit grateful for all I’ve done for you.” 

Mike did not telegraph his intentions, so when he lunged forward and slammed his mouth against Harvey’s, he froze in surprise.  The kiss was not gentle.  Mike’s mouth attacked, his teeth nipped painfully, and his tongue rammed its way past Harvey’s stiff lips, stuffing his mouth almost to his tonsils.   

Then Harvey’s brain caught up with what was happening.  He grabbed Mike’s face, one hand on each side, and tilted his head, giving as good as he got, pushing back with his own tongue until Mike yielded and his mouth softened.  Harvey took control of the kiss, gentling his movements, licking in and out of Mike’s mouth, using his thumbs to rub circles on Mike’s jaw.  He heard Mike’s low moan of surrender, felt the tension leave him.  Harvey gave an answering moan and shivered at how sublime this felt. 

One hand slid lower, to Mike’s neck.  His pulse galloped under Harvey’s fingers.  Harvey lifted his head and bent down to lick his neck, over the pulse point, and mouthed him, sucking lightly. 

“Harvey,” whispered Mike. 

“Ssh.”  He ran his hands down Mike chest, to the hem of his t-shirt, and underneath the soft cotton, to his belly and ribs, needing the feel of warm skin under his hands.  His mouth returned to Mike’s, bestowing a kiss he hoped was tender enough to convey everything he felt for Mike.  Harvey would have been happy to kiss Mike like this all night, but before he could fully sink into it, Mike gave his hair a sharp tug. 

Harvey raised his head and gazed down at Mike, first at his kiss-reddened mouth, and his heaving chest, and then his eyes, which were stormy grey and troubled.   

“I’m sorry, Harvey.”  Mike’s expression contorted as if he was in pain. 

Harvey stroked the side of Mike’s face, but pulled his hand away when Mike jerked to the side to avoid him.  “What are you sorry for?” 

“Everything.  For not being the person you think I am.  For … just everything.”  He scooted away, huddling into his corner of the couch, arms crossed over his chest.  He let out a rough laugh.  “You’re a good kisser.”  He licked his lips as if chasing the taste of Harvey, and then gave his head a quick shake.  “We can’t do that again.  I can’t give you anything else.” 

Harvey studied his face, trying, without success, to decipher his closed off expression.  He might have pointed out that Mike was the one who initiated the kiss, but he sensed that something deeper was going on with Mike.  Something occurred to him which he probably should have asked earlier.  “Mike?  Have you ever been with a man before?” 

Mike jumped to his feet and stalked to the other side of the room before turning to face Harvey, with his arms still held over his chest like a shield.  “I don’t see how that is any of your business.” 

“Don’t you think maybe it became my business when you kissed me like that?” 

With lips pressed together, Mike shook his head and began a restless pacing, appearing as uncomfortable and tightly wound as Harvey had ever seen him.  “It was a mistake.  It was a mistake, and it never happened.  Okay?  It never happened.  It never happened.” 

He was practically shouting by the third repetition.  Alarmed, Harvey rose to his feet, but stayed near the couch, tracking Mike’s erratic movements with his eyes.  “It did happen Mike,” he said softly. 

Mike halted and stared at Harvey with a look of raw panic that, to Harvey, seemed far out of proportion to the circumstances.  Mike shook his head slowly, back and forth.  "I can't do this.  Shit.  I need some air."  Moving stiffly, he stalked toward the front door. 

"Mike," Harvey called after him. 

With his hand on the doorknob and his back to Harvey, Mike snapped, "What?" 

Sudden sorrow filled Harvey, along with confusion.  He wanted to demand that Mike come back and talk to him, to explain what was going on in his head, but he didn't, because nothing about their relationship gave him the right to demand anything these days.  "Don't forget your coat," he finished weakly.   

Mike grabbed his coat from the closet, and then he was gone. 

"Fuck," muttered Harvey.  He looked around for a heavy, breakable object to throw, thought better of it, and headed for his liquor cabinet.  Might as well go with something tried and true.  He poured a generous portion of Macallan 18 into a glass, and resisted the urge to down it in one gulp.  He took careful, disciplined sips while he walked to the front door and stood staring at it. 

Why did everything have to go to shit whenever he tried to talk to Mike?  He reviewed the last few minutes in his mind.  Oh, right.  That kiss.  He'd pushed Mike, which he'd promised himself he wouldn't do, Mike had pushed back, and then they had simply … _detonated_.   

Mike's reaction made no sense.  How could anyone participate in a kiss so explosive and not recognize it for what it was?  It had burned through him like a flashover.  Nothing in his life could compare.  The early days with Scottie came close, but there had been an element of competition between them, a frantic almost-hate.  He didn't feel any of that with Mike.  Instead, he felt a melting tenderness, and a desire to protect him – and the need to bury himself inside him and take up residence, so that Mike would never feel alone again. 

_God, I'm pathetic_.  The last of the scotch trickled over his tongue and down his throat.  He considered the empty glass in his hand.  He'd made a huge tactical error in suggesting Mike live elsewhere.  Maybe Harvey had been experiencing his own blind panic at the time, and maybe deep down he'd never thought Mike would call his bluff.  But he had.  Now, with Harvey's stupid request for a kiss, he'd driven him even further away.   

So … what now?  It occurred to him that instead of getting Mike to explore other living situations, he should have put more effort into helping him find a job.  On the other hand, Mike had so far shot down nearly every offer of help Harvey had given him.  Now it turned out that Mike wanted to train to be a chef.  Harvey could see if he could pull some strings to get him moved up on the waiting list, even if he believed it was a mistake.  On the surface, there was nothing wrong with the profession, except he'd never witnessed Mike exhibit even the slightest bit of interest or enthusiasm for cooking.  What did it matter, though, as long as he was gainfully employed? 

Harvey shook his head, working his jaw, which had grown stiff with tension.  It mattered, because Mike had a one in a million mind, along with a one in a million heart.  He might be satisfied as a chef, but would he ever be happy or fulfilled? 

Harvey knew that he couldn't make decisions for him.  Mike had to work this out on his own.  Still, if he ever asked for help, Harvey would give him everything.  Until then, he could only be a spectator at best, and at worst a hindrance.  The first thing he needed to do was stop lusting after him.  Easier said than accomplished, but he would do his best. 

He couldn't get the image out of his mind, of Mike's panicked expression, his repeated, "it never happened … it never happened."  It seemed like such an overreaction.  He slowly turned, thinking about going into the kitchen and refilling his glass.  _Have you ever been with a man?  It never happened!_  

Something clicked, then.  A puzzle piece turned and slid into place.  He could have smacked his forehead at how dense and almost wilfully blind he'd been.  Mike had been to prison.  Mike, who at times in the past Harvey had found so appealingly, temptingly pretty, had been inside for close to four years.  If anybody would be a target in prison, it would be someone like Mike, and Harvey knew better than anyone how non-existent Mike's self-defense skills were.   

Mike had called himself "poison," named himself as unworthy – which was ridiculous, but perhaps an understandable response to … to what?  Harvey began to grow nauseous as he remembered trying to force that first kiss on Mike, and then repeating the mistake tonight.  "Fu-u-u-u-u-ck," he breathed.  Moving in something close to slow motion, he spun back toward the front door, drew his arm back, and hurled the glass against the door.  It shattered, and fractured glass scattered to the ground. 

It didn't make him feel any better.  As he swept up slivers and shards of glass, he cursed himself savagely, in a way he hadn't done for years, not since the weeks following Mike's arrest, but just like then, he was powerless to fix things, or to put anything back together the way it had once been.   

 

****** 

 

When Mike went to the pick-up location for the next run four days later, a man he didn't recognize sat in the driver's seat of the van.  Mike hesitated, holding the door open and leaning into the vehicle. 

"Where's Viking?" he asked. 

"He's driving a different crew.  You're with me today.  You got a problem with that?" 

Did he?  What did it matter who drove the van, so long as he got paid?  "Nope."  He climbed into the passenger seat and looked into the back of the van.  He spotted two or three people he'd seen on other runs, but the rest were unfamiliar to him.  Again, it didn't matter.  He wasn't here to make friends. 

He dozed off on the drive north, and woke up to the feel of a finger poking his knee.  "Let's go," ordered the driver, who had never introduced himself.  "We ain't got all day." 

_Didn't they?_ Presumably, none of them had any other pressing engagements, or they wouldn't be here.  He kept his mouth shut and climbed out into a light drizzle.  The neighborhood was nearly indistinguishable from the other ones he'd worked in.  Without waiting for instructions, he headed off down the street to the first mailbox. 

He'd been at it for perhaps ten minutes.  His only warning was a flash of colored lights in his peripheral vision, and a high-pitched wail.  Moments later, law enforcement officers in full tactical gear poured from vehicles and swarmed the street.  Mike stood frozen for half a second with an envelope in his hand, and then instinct and pure terror took over.   

He dropped the mail and bolted, away from the street and into the yard of the closest house.  He sprinted into the backyard, and found himself facing a high wooden fence with a latched gate in one corner.  He ran for the gate, fumbled with the latch for precious seconds, and then he was through it and in someone else's back yard.  He caught a flash of someone's face in a window, and then raced past the house for the street.  Amazingly, this street was clear of flashing lights and men and women with drawn guns.  He put on a new burst of speed.  He had just enough time to believe he might actually get away, when two men crashed through a hedge two houses down, spotted him and pounded down the street towards him. 

Knowing he didn't stand a chance, still he spun away and tried to outrun them, only to come face to face with a third man who skidded to a stop a few feet in front of Mike, holding a handgun which he leveled at his chest. 

"Federal Agent," bellowed the man, just as someone slammed into Mike from behind, bearing him to the asphalt.  A knee ground into his back, and his arms were jerked behind him.  Metal cuffs snapped coldly over his wrists. 

He wasn't going anywhere.  Through the deafening buzz of panic inside his head, he heard orders being issued, and running and shouting and cursing.  One officer stayed with him.  He could see their booted feet, but he lay passively, cheek to the damp chilly ground, feeling every fragile, foolhardy plan he'd made crumble around him. 

 

****** 

 

Vanessa sat across the desk from Harvey, giving him a detailed rundown of the dirt she had dug up on three of the potential witnesses in a case that looked like it might actually go to trial.  It was after seven.  He was anxious to get home, and struggled to concentrate on what she was saying. 

"Harvey?  Well?  Do you have any questions for me?"  She spoke in the tone of voice that told him she knew he probably hadn't been listening. 

He gave her an apologetic smile.  "No.  Just leave the files for me.  I'll review them tomorrow morning, and give you a call if I need more information." 

"I'll wait for your call."  She glanced at her phone.  "Want to go grab some dinner?" 

He deliberated for a few seconds.  It would be nice to avoid the oppressive atmosphere at home for another hour or so, but he shook his head.  "I should get home.  I'm worried about Mike." 

"Oh?  Worried how?" 

"He seemed to be healing, and coming out of his shell, but I think I managed to set him back.  He's barely spoken to me for the last four days." 

She eyed him shrewdly.  "What is it you think you did?" 

"Made a pass at him.  Twice.  I know.  It was stupid.  He almost seemed okay with it, but then he freaked out and shut down, and now he spends all of our time together brooding." 

"When you say pass …" 

"I kissed him.  He kissed me.  That was it.  The way he reacted, though, concerns me."  He tapped out an erratic rhythm with his pen, considering how much he should say.  "I think something happened to him in prison." 

"Quite likely, in my experience.  Like what, exactly?" 

He winced.  "Like … assault?" 

"And by assault, you mean … " 

Harvey nodded. 

Her eyes widened slightly as she took this in.  "I see."  She twisted her mouth into a lop-sided frown.  "That sucks." 

"Yeah.  What do you think I should do?" 

"Maybe stop kissing him, for starters." 

He sighed.  He knew that he deserved her scorn, but hated the way she managed to get under his skin.  "Agreed.  What else?" 

"You could try talking to him about it, but you men are kind of funny little fuckers when it comes to sharing your feelings.  Don't scowl at me.  You know it's true.  Maybe just hint that you have an inkling, and suggest counseling." 

"Already did that – that last part.  I just don't -- "  He was interrupted when his cell phone trilled.  He plucked it up, and answered the call.  On the other end, an artificial sounding voice informed him that he had a collect call from the City of Hartford, and asking if he would accept.  Confused, he said yes.  Vanessa was watching him from across the desk, and their gazes met as a familiar voice spoke in his ear. 

"It's me." 

"Mike?  Where are you." 

Several beats of thick silence.  "I'm in jail."  His voice cracked as he broke the news. 

Harvey's chest felt as if something hot and sharp had pierced straight through it.  _F-u-u-u-u-ck._ The curse filled his head and echoed hollowly as he searched for something to say. 

"Harvey?  Did you hear me?" 

He breathed in and out and forced himself to focus, to concentrate on what needed to be done.  "Where are you?" 

"Hartford City Jail." 

"Hartford?  As in Connecticut?" 

"Yes." 

Harvey had a million questions, but they could wait until he got to Mike and bailed him out.  "Okay," he said, "here's what you're going to do.  Don't say another word to anyone until I get there.  Understood?" 

"Of course, but don't you want to know – " 

"Save it until I get there.  Not another word.  I'm leaving now.  With traffic, it might take me a couple of hours to reach you."  He paused.  "Are you going to be okay until then?"  No answer.  "Mike?" 

Mike whispered, without a trace of humor, sounding terrified, "You said not another word." 

Harvey massaged his forehead.  "One more word.  Tell me yes, that you're going to be okay." 

"Yes?" 

Harvey had never heard anyone sound less sure of anything in his life.  "I'm coming for you."  He disconnected the call and stood up.  "Mike’s been arrested.  Gotta go." 

Vanessa rose and shadowed him to the door.  "I'm coming with you.  I'll drive." 

"I appreciate it, but I can handle this." 

She put her hand on his arm, halting him.  "You're upset.  You shouldn't be behind the wheel." 

"Ray – " 

"Deserves a night at home with his family.  You and I both know that this could talk a while.  I have no one waiting at home for me.  Besides, I drive faster than him." 

A rush of gratitude filled him.  "Thanks, Van."  And then they were walking at speed for the elevator, as he tried not to imagine every single possible horrible outcome. 

 

****** 

 

It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time Harvey got to see Mike.  Initially, the front desk clerk told him he'd need to come back in the morning, but he insisted politely, and then insisted less politely, until finally, someone was sent to the holding cell to escort the prisoner to an interview room.  When Harvey entered, he found Mike cuffed to the table, visibly trembling, eyes wide and dazed.  His t-shirt was ripped at the collar, and a bruise darkened one cheek. 

Harvey knew the rules, knew he wasn't supposed to touch the prisoner, but couldn't stop himself from giving Mike's shoulder a comforting squeeze before he sat down across from him.  He'd already discovered the charge:  mail theft.  He also knew the maximum sentence was five years in a federal prison.  He was just as scared as Mike looked, but mixed up with that, even though he didn't want to admit it – or show it just yet – was hot, uncomprehending anger.  Because, how could Mike be so stupid? 

"What happened to your face?" he asked.   

A shrug from Mike. 

"Okay, aside from that, how are you?" he asked. 

Mike shuddered, briefly closing his eyes.  "The smells … " he whispered.  "It smells just like I remembered." 

They didn’t have much time so Harvey pushed down his pity and got to the point, working hard to keep his voice level.  "What happened?" 

Mike's gaze remained fixed on the tabletop as he twisted his hands into a white-knuckled knot.  "I got caught."  He gave an ugly sounding laugh.  "Again." 

"Why?  Why were you in Connecticut, stealing mail?" 

"So the people that paid me could wash the checks I took, and clone the credit cards, and whatever else it is that identity thieves do." 

Harvey nearly growled in frustration.  "Jesus, Mike, what were you thinking?" 

"I was thinking I needed the money." 

Jerking to his feet, Harvey paced to the corner of the room, as far from Mike as the confined space allowed.  From there, he stared at him, letting his bafflement show.  "I would have given you anything you needed.  All you had to do was ask.  You had the chance for a fresh start.  What possessed you to break the law, knowing where it would inevitably lead?" 

"I told you already.  Money.  It makes the world go around, or haven't you heard?" 

"There is something called a job.  You know, honest employment?  Is this ringing a bell?" 

"In case it's escaped your notice, I've been looking, every goddamn day.  No one is exactly beating down the door to hire me." 

"You have to give it some time." 

“I have!  And get serious for a minute.  Would _you_ want me working for you?  I don’t think so.  Scottie told me a little about the shit you had to put up with when you opened your firm.  What would your clients think if they heard I’m living with you, or God forbid, working for you again?  They'd leave in droves.  Face it, I’m poison to you and your reputation." 

Mike had called himself that before, and Harvey hated it.  "Who I choose to live with is nobody's business.  So you can't work at a law firm.  That's not your only option." 

"I have no experience at anything else, plus I have a big black mark on my record.  What did you expect me to do?" 

"I expected you to show some patience, and keep looking.  What about that cooking thing?  You said you were on the waiting list." 

Mike thumped his fists on the table in a show of frustration.  "That's six months out.  And they don't even guarantee a job at the end of it." 

"None of which explains why you decided you needed money so badly that you'd risk your future." 

Now Mike looked so miserable that Harvey was tempted to tell him it was all okay.  Except it wasn't.   

Mike tried to lean back, discovered that the cuffs didn't allow it, and propped his elbows on the table.  "You were pushing me out the door." 

"I wasn't – " 

"You were pushing me out the door, and I won't go back into transitional housing, even if they'd have me.  So I made a decision.  I just need to get out of this town and get a new start.  That’s the only reason I went to work for Viking.” 

Ignoring for the moment the stab of pain caused by Mike's professed plan to leave, Harvey latched onto the last thing he'd said.  “Viking?  The brains behind this operation is named Viking?” 

“What? No.  He’s not the brains.  But yes, his name is Viking.  It's a prison thing, Harvey.  Everyone in prison gets a nickname.  For the first six months, mine was Casper, I guess because I looked like a fucking ghost.  Then I became Jackmacoy, which is ironic, don’t you think, considering why I was in there.  They named him Viking because whenever a fight broke out, he went beserk.  There was also Romeo, who could be sad and tragic, unless he had a warm body to rub up against.  I rubbed up against him for a while.  And Bullet who was a …”  He trailed off, as if the outburst had drained his energy. 

“Bullet, who was …” Harvey prompted.  “Was a what, Mike?” 

Mike had turned his head away, refusing to meet Harvey’s eyes.  “He was a complete piece of filth.”  A pause.  “I don’t know how he got his name.  I’m sure there are plenty of volunteers to put one in him.  A bullet, that is.”  His voice dropped to almost a whisper.  “Me included.” 

Harvey cocked his head to one side.  “You?” 

“I’d be first in line.” 

“Why?  What did he do to you?”  He wasn’t certain he wanted the answer when he asked the question, and became further convinced when Mike blanched and looked about five seconds away from either puking or passing out.  “Mike?”  He strode back to the table and sat down, wrapping his fingers around Mike's wrist.  His pulse was racing.  "What's wrong?  Do you need some water?" 

After a brief hesitation, Mike shook his head.  "I'm okay," he whispered. 

He didn't look okay.  Harvey's suspicions about Mike's prison experience, which he'd shared with Vanessa earlier, were reinforced by Mike's reaction.  They would be having a conversation about this once he got Mike out, but he might have to break Mike a little to get the truth out of him.  He wouldn't do that to him here, when he looked so close to breaking all on his own.  With that in mind, he changed the subject. 

“Mike, this could go very badly for you.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?  You say you’ve done this five –” 

“Six.” 

“Six times.  Maybe the first time it was a heat of the moment thing.  But you went back again, and again and again.” 

“Is this your opening statement, counselor?  Or closing?” 

Harvey’s fist opened and closed several times as he struggled to control his temper.  “Okay.  Fine.  Forget for a minute the potential consequences to yourself.  Maybe, for whatever asinine reason, you’re past caring about those.  What I’d like you to do right now is consider the harm you and your little ring of identity thieves were doing to all of those innocent people you victimized.” 

Mike snorted.  “Innocent?  That’s a joke.  Who is truly innocent?  If they’re not cheating on their wives, or husbands, they’re cheating their customers, or fucking up the economy with sleazy stock trades or predatory loans.  They’re going to church on Sunday, and then spitting on some homeless person on Monday, or telling some single parent what they can and cannot buy with their food stamps or card or whatever.”   

Mike let out a cynical bark of laughter, and rested his head against his fists.  “Or they’re refusing to hire some guy who fucked up, who made a mistake and just wants another chance.  That’s all I want Harvey.  Just a chance to show I’m worth something, that I’m not just another chronic fuckup, buying time until they send me back to prison.  But hey, look at me, I guess that’s exactly what I am.  Big fucking surprise.” 

Harvey breathed out slowly, searching for something to say in response.  Mike had lapsed into brooding silence.  This was another argument they would have to put off for later.  "Your arraignment is in the morning.  Vanessa is waiting for me outside.  We're going to go check into a hotel and get a few hours sleep." 

Mike lifted his head.  His defensive anger appeared to have drained away, and he looked tired.  Tired and frightened.  "Vanessa is here?" 

"She was with me when you called.  She drove me up here."  At Mike's arched eyebrow, he explained, "She claimed I looked too … distracted … to drive myself." 

"Distracted?" 

_Devastated.  An emotional wreck.  Ready to climb right out of his skin._ "It's not important.  I'll be back in time for your arraignment.  Keep your mouth shut and sit tight until then." 

Mike nodded, biting his lower lip.  "Do you think they'll let me out on bail?" 

"I'm cautiously optimistic.  However, your record as a convicted felon is not going to work in your favor."  At Mike's crestfallen look, he added, "I'm sorry.  I'm only trying to be realistic.  I'll do everything in my power, though, to bring you home with me." 

"Thanks, Harvey." 

After that, there was nothing more to say.  Harvey left, and Mike was escorted back to his cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

Mike didn't get any sleep that night. The holding cell was crowded past capacity, and he spent the night sitting on the cold cement floor, back pressed against the wall.

Four of his fellow inmates had been in the van with him, and caught up in the raid, which now that he thought about seemed more well-staffed and well-armed than their ragged little group of thieves warranted. He didn't know the full extent of the ID theft operation. Maybe the feds and local cops who participated wanted to make sure they took it all down at once. He wondered why Viking hadn't been there today. Had he made a deal, and turned on his fellow criminals? Had he been arrested at a different location? Or had he just gotten lucky?

Mike didn’t much of the night to worrying about Viking, since he was more worried about himself. He wondered if he would be offered a deal, and what he’d need to give them in return. As he thought back to his arrest four years ago, he recalled how adamantly opposed he'd been to turning on Harvey, or anyone else in the firm. Right now, he could honestly say he'd spill everything he knew if it got him out of prison time, because fuck Viking, and whoever was running the show.

Five years in a federal prison. He hadn’t needed Harvey to tell him that. Mike’s instinct for self-preservation might be sub-standard at times, but his memory still functioned just fine. At least he'd been arrested in Connecticut, and not New York, so there was a chance that Scottie wouldn't get wind of it, or be able to influence his sentencing like she had before.

In between imagining scenarios for the future, each one worse than the last, and glaring at anyone who ventured too close to his bubble of personal space, he thought of how relieved he'd been to see Harvey, how his heart lifted when he walked into the interview room. Harvey hadn't insulted him by sugar-coating anything, or minimizing his predicament, but Mike knew he was his best chance to get out of here. Still, their fight had left a bitterness at the back of his throat.

Why had he even tried to justify himself to Harvey? There was no true justification for what he'd done. He’d always wanted Harvey to think well of him, and there had been a time when he had lived for a word of praise from him. It made him sick to think of how low he must have sunk in Harvey's opinion.

He tried to imagine himself walking through the front doors of another prison, knowing he'd be there for five years, with a future awaiting him when he got out that was just as shitty, if not shittier, than the one he'd demolished today. At least he wasn't the green kid anymore. He knew what to do to get along on the inside. If he couldn't trade his legal knowledge, he could trade himself. That thought depressed him, almost as much as the realization that he'd never have a chance with Harvey now, would never hear him tell him he’d done a good job, or that he was a good person. He'd blown that chance, in every way possible. Even if he never served another day in prison, how could Harvey trust him, or respect him, or feel anything for him besides contempt?

Morning came, and when breakfast, in the form of stale cheese sandwiches, was served, Mike took a pass. He doubted he could keep anything down. The minutes crawled past. Half a dozen of the inmates were herded out, providing some breathing room in the cell. Mike caught one of his fellow mail thieves staring at him from across the room. "What?" he asked testily.

The young black man shrugged. His gaze darted away, and then back to Mike. He sidled closer. "Viking said he knew you on the inside."

"Yeah? So?"

"I never done any time."

"Shouldn't have done the crime, then," Mike muttered.

"I needed the money for tuition."

Mike sighed. "Why tell me? Do I look like the judgey type?"

"A little, yeah. But I just wondered if you had any, you know, tips or shit, in case my dumbass legal aid muppet can't get me off."

"Tips?"

"On what to do in prison. How to survive, without … getting jumped or whatever."

"You’re talking to the wrong guy." Mike rubbed his eyes. When he opened them once more, the guy was still staring at him. He sighed again. "Fine. What's your name?"

"Morris."

"Okay, Morris, if you're a first time offender, I doubt you'll do time, but if you do, pay attention. I mean, like, pay attention to everything. Watch your back, and your front, and both sides. Never let your guard down. Find some allies, fast. That means you have something that they need or want. If anyone threatens you, hit back hard. You might end up doing some time in segregation, but at least no one can get to you there, and it will raise your cred. Try to get in with one of the gangs or factions. Never snitch. No matter what the CO's say, they can't protect you 24/7, so you've got to find a way to deal with your own shit. Oh, and most importantly, do not change the television channel."

Morris had been nodding, taking in everything Mike said, but now interrupted. “The TV? Are you shitting me?”

“You’d be surprised how many fights break out over TV shows. Anyway, do everything I said, and you might survive your first week.” Mike hoped he was right, and that the kid wouldn't do any time. It was the young ones that had it the worst. And the clueless ones like Mike had been. "Don't worry about it too much. You'll figure it out once you get inside." He gave a sharp laugh. "Oh, and don't do crimes. There. That's the extent of my sage advice."

Morris grunted. He opened his mouth as if he had more to ask, but the cell door slid open, and Mike watched as he was summoned and led away with the other remaining familiar faces.

***

Mike’s turn didn’t arrive until the cell had been almost completely emptied out. The first thing he saw as he was led into the courtroom was Harvey waiting for him, standing next to a thin woman with a dark, glossy bob. Another hearing was in process and the room was loud and crowded and chaotic. Harvey motioned Mike over to the back corner, and grabbed his arm, hauling him closer for a quiet conference.

“Mike, this is Gwen Atwood, the federal prosecutor assigned to your case.”

Mike nodded and eyed her warily.

She gave him a crisp nod back. “Harvey has been doing his best to sweet talk me into making a deal.”

Mike shot Harvey a quick glance. “What kind of deal?”

She considered him for a few seconds, eyes narrowing. “Let me level with you. The sweep yesterday had been months in the planning. Unfortunately, it also managed to miss the main players at the top of your little criminal food chain. We think someone tipped them off. Without them, we’d look rather foolish coming down too hard on the grunts like you.” She grimaced, appearing disgusted. “The judge has already let most of your pals off with community service – in return for any information they had, which turned out to be precious little.”

A fragile hope began building inside of Mike, but she quashed it with her next words.

“You, however, are a different sort of animal.” She flipped open a file folder, consulting it for a moment before looking back at him. “You’re a repeat offender, for starters. You’ve only been out a few months, and here you are, making the same mistakes.”

“To be fair, these were different mistakes.”

“Mike,” cautioned Harvey, “shut up and listen.”

Harvey didn’t sound angry, just … cranky and out of sorts. Mike couldn’t blame him, considering that he was here, and not back at his office, billing his insane hourly rate. Atwood was speaking again, and he forced himself to pay attention.

“Judge Newell is not a fan of recidivists. On the other hand, prison overcrowding is a very real thing, so we need to be practical. With all of that in mind, here is what I’m offering: if you cooperate with us one hundred percent, and give a complete statement about anything you remember, and if you agree to testify should anyone at the top ever make it to trial, I can keep you out of prison. I'll recommend six months of electronic monitoring, weekly face-to-face check-ins, one hundred hours of community service, and the maximum fine, which is –”

“Five thousand dollars,” Mike finished for her, his heart dropping as he thought about all of that dirty money sitting in his bank account, earmarked for his escape.

She gave him a level, assessing look before continuing. “That is correct.”

“We agree to everything,” said Harvey. “I would like to add – ”

“Wait. Wait. I have questions. How am I supposed to get up here every week? Will the community service by up here too?”

Atwood answered, “Connecticut has cross-jurisdictional agreements with the state of New York. Harvey tells me that is where you reside.”

Mike glanced at Harvey, and found himself being watched with an expression that gave nothing away. “I do, I think. For now.”

“A permanent residence is required to qualify for the electronic monitoring program, so you’d better be sure.”

Harvey put a hand on Mike’s arm to stop him from saying anything more, and answered for him. “That’s not a problem. Mike will be remaining at his current residence for the foreseeable future.”

And what could Mike say to that? Given the option, of course he would prefer Harvey’s condo to prison. Once he paid his fine, his funds would be back down to a pre-crime level, so it wasn’t like he was going anywhere.

Atwood nodded her assent. “I’ll take your word for it. What was it you wanted to add?”

“Mandated weekly counseling.”

Mike’s head snapped around so quickly to glare at Harvey that he nearly sprained his neck. The look Harvey gave him back was dark and severe and unflinching.

“We can make that happen,” said Atwood, “as long as Mike has health insurance that covers it. Alternatively, he needs someone willing to foot the bill.”

“He has that.”

“Then I think we have a deal. I'll take your statement as soon as the judge is done with you.” She gave Mike a searching look. “I hope you know how lucky you are to have this guy on your side. Most public defenders would have thrown up their hands and let nature take its course, as it were.”

“Yeah,” Mike muttered, “I do know. He’s the best.” He was stupidly grateful that Harvey had kept him out of prison, but he also felt blindsided by his insistence on therapy. As they took a seat to wait for Mike’s case to come up, he was determined to focus on the gratitude. An ankle monitor, picking up trash or whatever they had him do, and living in a luxury condo – all of that was so preferable to five years in prison as to be almost ludicrous. He supposed he could stand to go spill his guts to some stranger once a week – or fake-spill his guts if it came down to it.

Vanessa slid in beside him on his other side, and gave him a one-armed hug. “How are you doing?”

Surprised at her friendliness and warmth, he gave her an uncertain smile, and felt tears of relief prick his eyes. He sniffed once, determined not to give in to them, at least not here in public. “Not bad? I mean, good, actually. Harvey has made a deal with the prosecutor, so it looks like I’m getting out of here today.” His voice cracked as it finally sank in that he would be going home with Harvey, and not spending another night in jail.

“I never doubted him. What kind of deal?” He told her, and she nodded. “How are you going to swing that fine?”

At this point, Harvey interjected, “I’ll take care of it.”

“No.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Mike. Swallow your pride for once. Your deal is contingent on paying that fine today.”

Mike sighed. “I have the money.” He watched understanding dawn on Harvey’s face. “Yeah. Crime pays, until it doesn’t. So it’s kind of appropriate, don’t you think?” He crossed his arms over his chest and settled lower onto the hard wooden bench. “I was going to use it to start over somewhere else, but now it looks like I won’t be going anywhere for a while. Lucky you.”

Harvey looked away, jaw tight. Perhaps Mike was imagining things, but it appeared as if Harvey was fighting a smile.

 

******

 

Once they got in front of the judge, everything moved more quickly. The deal was approved, Mike’s personal items were returned, and Harvey watched as he swiped his debit card to pay the fine. He listened while Mike gave the prosecutor his statement, and apologized for his lack of details. She waved off his apologies with a scowl, commenting that she hadn't expected much more than he gave her. He didn't know Viking's real name, but he could tell her that he'd been living at New Hope House. Viking might have moved on by now, but the administrator might be able to provide his legal name.

Harvey made a mental note to follow up, because he would very much like to have a word with Viking himself, if the opportunity ever arose.

Mike was given a stack of paperwork, and ordered to go straight to an address in Manhattan to be fitted for an ankle monitor, at which time he would receive more detailed information about the rules of his house arrest. He would have to report to his probation officer the following Monday, and at that time his community service would be scheduled.

Harvey kept a close eye on Mike through all of this, and listened carefully to all of the instructions. He hadn’t slept more than four hours last night, but Mike looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were red, his lids heavy, dark crescents stood out like bruises underneath, but he paid attention, and nodded affirmatively whenever asked if he understood.

Finally, they were released, and walked outside the courthouse into a cold, steady rain. Vanessa had parked a few blocks away. The three of them walked rapidly, but were dripping wet by the time they reached the car park.

Mike climbed into the backseat, and Harvey got in front with Vanessa.

“Hey, Vanessa?” said Mike sleepily. “Thanks for driving Harvey. And me.”

She gave Harvey a surprised look as she addressed Mike. “No problem, sweetie.” Her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “I may bill him for my time, though.”

Harvey grunted in response. He doubted he’d ever see this on her monthly statement.

“And Harvey,” continued Mike, “I mean … I can’t even begin … ” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Thank you.” He hunched over and hid his face in the palm of his hand. One wrenching sob worked its way out of him, and then another and another.

Harvey shot Vanessa a panicked look. She widened her eyes and made frantic gestures at him, which he interpreted as meaning, _say something to him._

After only a few seconds of hesitation, Harvey reached into the backseat and placed his hand on Mike’s knee. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” He gave his knee a gentle shake. “I promise.”

Mike nodded jerkily and raised his head. He sniffed and scrubbed his tears away with the back of his hand. After a quick glance at Harvey, he seemed unable to meet his eyes, and slumped into his seat, head turned toward the window.

Vanessa started the car, and they were on their way home. It seemed that Mike’s tears had provided a measure of release, because almost as soon as the car reached the freeway, Mike was asleep, head thrown back, snoring like a buzz saw.

Harvey saw Vanessa glance in the rearview mirror. “Is he always that loud?” she whispered.

“Pretty much.”

“You’ve got six more months of that. Think you can handle it?”

“It’s not like we’re sleeping in the same bed.”

“Yet.”

“Ha ha.”

She took another look back at Mike. “Poor kid. I’m glad you insisted on counseling. He needs it, whether he realizes it or not. Did he fight you on that?”

“No. I think he was in shock. I’m sure I’ll hear plenty on the subject over the next few weeks.”

Vanessa gave a soft huff of laughter. “Well, it was a sharp move, regardless. He’ll get over it.”

He didn’t bother to answer her. He didn’t feel all that sharp at the moment. He’d done what was best for Mike, and if Mike didn’t see that now, maybe he would eventually.

 

******

 

The ankle monitor turned out to be both larger and heavier than Mike expected. A wide strap held it in place. The woman who had fitted it for him recommended that he wear socks at all time to avoid chafing, except for when he showered, because he couldn’t take the device off, ever. Not for six months, anyway.

He’d also been issued a device that recorded his presence at home, and signaled the monitoring station hourly via cell phone technology. He couldn’t leave the apartment, except for pre-approved and scheduled trips to his probation officer, community service location, his therapist, and to the monitoring station. He was permitted no alcohol, and of course no drugs, and would be peeing in a cup weekly.

He was warned that he’d be receiving random calls on Harvey’s landline throughout the day, to check up on him. He couldn't understand the point of that, since he was already being tracked electronically. Maybe they felt the need for a low tech crosscheck in case he turned out to be some kind of electronics wizard who could rig up some sneaky way to bypass the system.

At least once a day, he would need to plug the device into an outlet to charge it. Since he couldn't take the monitor off, he would essentially be plugging himself in, with a charging cord that allowed for almost no movement. It wasn't prison, but it was a lot to take in all at once. Good thing his memory was up to the task.

At the moment, he was stretched out on Harvey’s couch, not paying attention to the movie Harvey had put on, while Harvey ordered them dinner. He’d been at Mike's side the entire day, a mostly silent observer to Mike’s processing. Vanessa had dropped them off at the monitoring station, and they’d taken a cab home from there.

It had been a long day. A long two days, which had left Mike was both exhausted and keyed up. He’d put another big black mark on his record, but he’d avoided prison, and ensured that he’d remain in Harvey’s orbit for another six months. He could admit to himself, now that he had no immediate exit strategy, that he was relieved. At the same time, he couldn’t help feel a high degree of guilt for forcing Harvey into this situation, when he had clearly wished only to wash his hands of his houseguest.

Now, with the new parameters, Mike wouldn’t even have the option of getting up and walking out if things got too tense between them. He couldn’t even go as far as the elevator without permission from his keepers. It was a lovely, luxurious cage, but it was still a cage. But he was grateful beyond words for the rescue. But his new life, whatever it was meant to be, was on hold again. But, but, but … And round and round went his hamster wheel.

_One hundred and eighty days_.

That was nothing. He could do that standing on his head. Too bad his sentence was essentially a sentence for Harvey as well.

Harvey strolled into the living room and eyed Mike. “We haven’t had pizza in a while, so I figured I’d give you a treat. You could probably use it after the last twenty-four hours.”

Mike sat up slowly, feeling the weight of the ankle monitor dragging him down when his feet hit the floor, like an extra jolt of amped up gravity. “The idea that you owe me anything, or that I deserve anything after what I did, is …”

“Laughable? Perhaps. Frankly, I find this situation about as far from amusing as it could be.” Bypassing his by now habitual seat at Mike’s side, he chose the armchair across from him, on the far side of the coffee table. Four feet to Harvey’s right, a sooty ball of flame filled the television screen.

Harvey still wore the suit he’d shown up in last night, sans jacket and tie. His face was tinged grey with exhaustion, and one corner of his mouth was tucked in, signaling his low level irritation. Despite all this, to Mike, he was beautiful.

Mike would have preferred to stuff himself full of pizza and then sleep for twelve hours, but they’d been putting this conversation off for most of the day. He bit back a sigh, put the movie on pause, and looked Harvey in the eye. “Thank you, Harvey. I mean it. I know I fucked up, and you had every right to simply wash your hands of me and my bullshit baggage, and walk away. You didn’t. I’m not sure why, but it goes without saying that I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. I’m not sure yet how I’ll repay you, but if you have any ideas, I’m open to them.” He swallowed hard. “Anything you want. Even … you know …”

Harvey scowled. “Stop.” He drummed his fingers on the chair’s arm, and Mike knew him well enough by now to guess that he was wishing he’d fixed himself a strong drink. “Do you know what the biggest regret of my life is?”

“Hiring me?”

“No. My biggest regret is not being able to prevent you from serving any time at all. Everything that happened to you after I met you is my fault.”

“I don’t – ”

“I know. You don’t regret it.” He regarded Mike, dark eyes serious. “You once said that you’d do it all again. That was before prison. Can you still say that? Really think about it before you answer. Can you honestly say you’d take the job all those years ago, knowing what you know now?”

_Suffocating darkness. Tearing pain. The sound of his own muffled screams echoing inside his head._

Would he give up the chance to know Harvey as he had, to avoid the worst parts of prison? It was over now, and he’d survived. He was still here. He was fine. Sort of. Except that he wasn’t, not even a little bit. He leaned forward, rubbing his face. “I don’t know, Harvey. Maybe I would have ended up there anyway, with or without you. God knows, that’s where I was headed.”

He lifted his head and met Harvey’s gaze. “Maybe … maybe bumbling my way into that interview room only postponed the inevitable. If the cops had caught me with all that pot, I doubt I could have gotten off with just a slap on the wrist.” A bitter laugh worked its way out of him, and he quoted, “’Mightily wove they the web of fate.’”

Harvey gave him a puzzled smile. “What’s that from”

“Helgakviða Hundingsbana. The First.” He laughed at Harvey’s cocked eyebrow. “A poem. I don’t know why that line stuck with me. Well, I do. Any and all lines stick with me, but that one in particular. I meditated on it more than once while I was inside.”

“What do you think it means? In regards to you.”

Mike shrugged, not wanting to continue the discussion. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere, though, and neither was Harvey who looked as if he was prepared to wait as long as it took to get an answer. Groaning internally, he said, “I think that even before I met you, all signs pointed to prison. That was my fate. Pre-ordained. Whether that’s down to a trio of supernatural beings weaving some jacked-up tapestry, or just my natural inclination to take the path of least resistance – straight to hell – I couldn’t say. Door number one, or door number two, I was always going to end up in the same place, no matter which one I chose.”

“Hm. I can’t say I agree. You've been through that door, though, and you’ve seen what’s on the other side. Why would you choose to go through it again?”

Mike gave an annoyed huff. “What do I need court mandated counseling for, when I’ve got you?”

Harvey’s intercom buzzed, and he got up to answer it. Saved by the pizza guy. Mike forced himself to relax, and by the time Harvey had paid for their dinner, placed the pizza on the coffee table, and settled back into his chair, Mike had started the movie again, turning up the sound in order to discourage any further dissection of his hopes and dreams and regrets.

 

******

 

A new routine developed for Mike. Monday mornings, he visited his probation officer, peed in a cup, and had his ankle monitor checked. Tuesdays and Thursdays from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon, he donned an orange vest and joined a little band of miscreants to pick up trash alongside the freeway. He looked forward to these days, since it got him out of Harvey’s condo, out of the city, and into the fresh air. Well, fresh except for the exhaust fumes. It rained more often than not, but he didn’t mind. At twelve hours per week, he figured he’d be finished with that part of his sentence in approximately two months.

He selected a therapist from a list provided by his PO. He might have gone with Harvey’s choice, Dr. Asgard, or whatever her name was, but even though he knew she would be barred from sharing anything he told her with Harvey, the tissue-thin separation between them made him uncomfortable. Plus, the official list included counselors who had dealt specifically with ex-cons like him.

He soon discovered that he could expect a phone call between five and seven every morning, verifying his whereabouts. On days when he was at home, a second and sometimes third call might occur at any moment.

He wasn’t barred from using the internet, and continued to doggedly send out resumes and applications, mainly to remain in practice and stave off boredom. He could no longer visit the library. When Harvey realized that Mike’s job search routine had been limited to the hours when Harvey and his laptop were at home, he made no comment, but two days later Ray showed up at the door in the middle of the day, and handed Mike a box containing a brand new laptop. He accepted it with a mixture of guilt, resentment, and almost giddy gratitude, which pretty much summed up the entirety of the house arrest experience.

He’d given Harvey his verbal thanks, but that did not seem adequate for all that he now owed him. Whenever he tried to bring it up, Harvey brushed off his thanks as if it was nothing to him. In some ways, from Harvey's viewpoint it was nothing. It was no financial hardship for him to feed and house Mike, and provide him with the occasional shiny new toy. With each new gesture, or take-out order, or piece of electronics, Mike felt his side of the scales drop lower and lower.

Because he had so little to keep him occupied most days, he had plenty of time to brood on his ballooning indebtedness to Harvey. If this had been actual prison, payment would soon be due. Harvey had said he didn’t want or need anything from Mike, but Mike remembered that kiss – the second kiss, filled with hunger and promise. Mike wasn’t blind, and he knew that despite all of his denials, Harvey did want something from him. The only question, as Mike saw it, was whether or not Mike could stand to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike's therapy sessions will begin in the next chapter. If you've paid attention to casting news for S6, you are aware that Malcolm-Jamal Warner will have a recurring role as a prison counselor. I thought he would make a fine counselor for this story as well. After poking around Google, I could not discover what his character's name will be on the show. If anyone else manages to tickle this out of the internets, I would love to know. If not, I'm going with Dr. Warner.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for your kind words and kudos. And look at me, sticking to a schedule and everything. (Although I can't begin to tell you how anxious this makes me ... ) Four more Fridays until S6. Does that mean four more chapters? Possibly ... Doesn't sound like enough though. Doesn't FEEL like enough. God, I'm the worst organizer in the world.

A small, discreet, silver-colored plaque next to the door read, _M. Warner, Ph.D, Licensed Therapist._   Mike had arrived a few minutes early, thanks to Ray's blatant disregard of both the rules of the road and the laws of physics.  It still surprised him that Dr. Warner was located in such a nice building, on the thirty-eighth floor, no less.  His practice must be successful.  How much was Harvey paying the guy?  Mike decided he didn't want to know.  Too depressing. 

He stutter-stepped out of the way as the door opened, letting out a red-eyed young woman who ignored him in her rush to get to the elevator.  He caught the door before it closed and went in, finding himself in a waiting area.  There was no receptionist, but in the email confirmation he'd received, he knew he was supposed to take a seat until he was summoned. 

Ten minutes later, he got his first look at Dr. Warner when he opened the door and ushered Mike into the inner office.  He was an attractive black man, maybe fifteen years older than Mike, solidly thick, with close-cropped hair, a neatly trimmed goatee threaded with grey, and a small gold hoop in one ear.  He wore jeans, white button down shirt, and a tweedy jacket.   

Mike took a seat on the couch, shifting nervously, not sure what to expect, but fully prepared to retain a death grip on all of his secrets.  The doctor settled across from him, reading from a file folder which Mike assumed held his record.  The doctor's expression fell somewhere between serious and kind. 

Dr. Warner looked up suddenly and caught Mike staring.  “Mike Ross.  Welcome.  Let’s start by getting to know one another.  I’ll go first.  I’ve been in practice for eighteen years.  I’m not a medical doctor, so I can’t prescribe pills.  You can talk to me about anything you like.  This is a safe space.  I’m here to listen, not to judge you.  Everything you say in this room is between you and me.  The only exception to this, is if I believe you are planning to hurt either yourself, or another person.  In that case, I am obligated to report your intentions to the authorities.  After reviewing your history, what I have available to me here, I don’t anticipate that being a problem.  Any questions so far?” 

Mike shook his head, even as he worried about how comprehensive that file on him actually was. 

“All right.  Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?” 

“Uh.  Not much to tell.  Just your average guy.” 

Dr. Warner’s warm brown eyes shone with humor.  “Just your average guy who managed to impersonate a lawyer at a prestigious law firm for nearly five years, and who also managed to achieve partner status in record time?  That kind of average guy?” 

At this reminder of his success, Mike experienced a twinge of pride, which he ruthlessly suppressed.  “And got caught.  And served prison time.  What’s your point?” 

“Just that the facts don’t exactly paint the picture of average.  What was it like?” 

“What was what like?” 

“Your years at _Pearson Specter & Litt._” 

Mike moved restlessly, not caring for the walk down memory lane.  “Satisfying.  Fulfilling.  Terrifying.” 

“Satisfying because … ?” 

“Because I sometimes got to help people.  And because I could put my talents to use for once.” 

“Which talents would those be?” 

Mike frowned, deciding that he hated therapy exactly as much as he’d imagined he would.  Dr. Warner could and probably would sit there and fire questions at him all day – or for fifty minutes once a week.  “I don’t know whether or not it says so in your file, but I have an eidetic memory.  I’m also good with numbers.  I’m great with details, and figuring solutions to complex legal problems.  Was great.  Past tense.” 

“And that all got taken away from you when you were caught.  How did that make you feel?” 

Mike spread his hands and gave a helpless huff of frustration.  “How do you think it made me feel? Not great.  Not as bad as being locked up with a bunch of fucking criminals for four years.” 

“I’m hearing a lot of anger.  Would you care to expand on that?” 

“You’ve got all the therapist patter perfected, don’t you?” 

“I should hope so.”  He closed Mike’s file, set it aside, and waited a full minute before speaking again.  “Why are you here, Mike?”   

“It doesn’t say in there?”  Mike gestured at the file.  Dr. Warner didn’t answer.  “I’m here because a judge said I have to be here to keep from going back to prison.” 

“Fair enough.  Why do you think that was, though?” 

“My, ah, attorney slipped that in without my consent.” 

“And why would he do that?” 

“No idea.”  He crossed his arms and turned his head to stare out the window. 

“None at all?” 

It wasn’t like Mike hadn’t thought about this in the last three weeks.  The prosecutor hadn’t been the one to bring up therapy.  She’d been prepared to make a deal without it.  No, that had been all Harvey’s idea.  He must really believe that Mike was fucked in the head, especially since he had volunteered to pay for the sessions.  He’d tried to convince Mike to see his own therapist even before his latest arrest.  Mike still wasn’t sure what had prompted that.  Maybe just the general fucked up vibe he gave off. 

“Mike?” 

He’d been quiet for too long.  He wondered what the doctor would do if he didn’t say another word, but decided that he might take it as proof that Mike was severely disturbed.  He heaved a long sigh.  “I don’t know how much that file tells you, but Harvey is more than just my attorney.” 

Dr. Warner nodded.  “He’s the one you worked for as a fake attorney.” 

“Correct.  He’s also the one who hired me, knowing I didn’t have a degree or a license to practice law.  He has given me a place to stay, at least until my house arrest is over and I can figure out a way to support myself.” 

“Do you consider him a friend?” 

“Sure.” 

“Do you believe he had your best interests in mind when he recommended therapy?” 

“Recommended?  More like mandated.” 

“You don’t think you need this?  You believe we’re both wasting our time here?” 

Mike shrugged.  “You’re getting paid, and I’m getting time away from Harvey’s condo, so no, in that respect this is not a waste.” 

Dr. Warner leaned back, propping one foot on his knee and tilting his head to the side.  “So your contention is that you’re fine.  Nearly four years in prison, including three trips to the infirmary, unable to find employment when you got out, and now another arrest … but you’re fine.” 

A slow burn of resentment began to smolder inside Mike’s chest.  “No.  Who would be?  But, get real, Doc.  I’m a statistic.  There’s nothing unique about my experience.  Does it make you uncomfortable to confront a statistic, face to face?  That must be inconvenient, considering that you signed up for this.” 

“I know you’re more than a statistic.” 

“You don’t know shit,” Mike muttered.   

“I know more than you think.” 

Mike shot him a skeptical look.  “Because you watched a movie about prison once?  Or a TV show?” 

“We aren’t here to talk about me.  But if it will help you to open up to me, I will tell you that I spent nearly five years in prison myself.” 

Mike gaped at him.  He hadn't been expecting that.  “You?” 

“I was young and stupid, once.  Why is that so surprising?” 

Mike found himself taking a closer look at Dr. Warner.  “No shit?  What were you in for?” 

“Armed robbery.  I was seventeen.  Once I got over being angry at the world, and believing that I had no future, I decided to reassert control over my fate.  I earned my GED in prison, and when I got out, with help from scholarships and a part time job, I got my degree.  Degrees, plural, if we’re being technical.” 

Mike didn’t know what to say to that, so he remained stubbornly quiet. 

“You see, Mike, you’re not just a statistic to me.  Your experience is unique to you, as mine was to me, but I understand, more than most people you might meet, what you went through, and what struggles you face now.” 

“Okay.  It still doesn’t mean anything I say to you will make a difference.  It won't change anything.” 

“But what if it did?  Isn’t it worth taking a chance, for the possibility of learning something about yourself, and altering your perspective?” 

Mike shrugged, unconvinced.   

“Don’t worry, Mike.  I’m not asking for your trust right off the bat.  That’s something we’ll build up to.  All I’m asking right now is that you try.” 

“Try what?” 

“To engage in a dialog.  To respond to my questions with as much honesty as you can.” 

“What if I have questions for you?” 

“Then I’ll do the same.” 

Trying not to be too obvious, Mike looked around the room for a clock, but found none.  His fingers itched to pull out his phone and check to see how much time remained in the session.  A dull throb had begun to develop inside his skull, and he rubbed his forehead.  “I’ll try,” he finally agreed, not really meaning it, and then added, “you’ll have to remind me what the question was that I’m avoiding.” 

Dr. Warner chuckled.  “With your memory?  Why don’t we start from the beginning?  I have the rough outline of your life, but it sounds like a fascinating story.  Tell me how you became a fake lawyer.” 

That sounded simple and safe enough.  “Well, let’s see.  My plan had always been to go to Harvard.  Unfortunately, my plans, as they often do, fell apart in a big way.  See, I had this friend named Trevor … ” 

 

****** 

 

Mike scanned the street for Ray's town car when he re-emerged onto the sidewalk, just shy of noon.  In Ray's place, he spotted Vanessa, leaning against her Porsche, holding two cups of coffee.  She spotted Mike, and gestured him over with a jerk of her head. 

“We meet again,” commented Mike, and took the coffee she passed to him.  He’d gotten out of the habit of being particular about the way his coffee tasted, but Vanessa had somehow managed to add exactly the right amount of sugar and milk.  He didn’t ask her how she’d known, figuring that for an experienced investigator, that sort of thing must be relative child’s play.  Instead, he asked, as they settled themselves inside the car, “Ray couldn’t make it?” 

“Harvey had an emergency meeting somewhere, so he asked me to come get you.” 

“Slow day in spyville?” 

“Not really.  My minions are hard at it though.  I actually do some of my best work in the middle of the night, hunched over my computer.” 

Mike had turned off his ringer prior to his appointment, and now he checked his phone, finding one message from Harvey, telling him essentially the same thing Vanessa just had. 

“What kind of emergency was it?” he asked. 

She shrugged.  “I couldn’t say.  He asked me to tell you he might be home late, and don’t wait dinner.  Speaking of which, it’s around the time normal people eat lunch.  Can I treat you to a burger, or something else that sounds good?” 

“Can’t.  If I don’t go straight home, the eye in the sky will know, and send someone out to look for me.” 

“Okay.  How about a raincheck for six months from now?” 

“Sure.  We’ll meet at the top of the Empire State Building.” 

She laughed, a rich, warm sound.  “How did your first appointment with the good doctor go?  Did you spill all your secrets and bare your soul?” 

“What soul?”  He drank more of the excellent coffee, and sank into plush leather, enjoying the feel of the heated seat, and deciding that if he ever found gainful employment, and if he ever got a driver’s license, he would set his sights on a car exactly like this.  “Don’t tell Harvey, but I kinda like Dr. Warner.  If I have to sit around for fifty minutes once a week, answering questions posed by a stranger, I suppose I could do worse.  In fact, I'd do him.” 

“Ooh, transference on your very first appointment.  Sounds like he won’t be a stranger for long.  Once trust is established, you’ll open up more.  Not in _that_ way, of course.  If he tries to make a move on you, let me know.  I'll take care of him.” 

“Okay, now I'm a little scared of you.  You realized I was only joking, right?” 

“Me too.  And Dr. Warner has an excellent reputation.  I had a few minutes before you got out, and I did a little research on him.  He teaches the occasional class at Columbia, and a full third of his clients are court referrals like you.” 

He gave her a quick side eye.  “Is being uncommonly nosy a hazard of your profession?” 

“Probably.”  They were idling at a red light, and she turned to meet his gaze.  “You know, it’s convenient that Harvey asked me to pick you up today.” 

“Because …” 

“Harvey’s been keeping me and my team busy, plus you slept all the way home from Connecticut that day, otherwise I might have asked you sooner.” 

“Asked me what?” 

“If you’d like to work for me.” 

The light changed to green.  Vanessa shifted the Porshe into gear and shot forward, pressing Mike back into his seat.  “Are you serious?” 

She shrugged carelessly, as if she hadn’t just offered him something which less than a minute ago had seemed completely out of reach.  “While you’re confined to Harvey’s condo, it would just be research, background checks, skip traces, boring stuff mainly, but I can put you on the payroll, pay you a good hourly wage, part time to begin with.  If things work out, and you like me and I like you, you could potentially become part of my team.  What do you say?” 

He was almost too stunned to speak at first.  And then, “Yes.  Ohmygod, yes.  That would be great.  I like you already.  I think I love you.” 

“Now, now.  None of that.  Unlike Harvey, I don’t get involved with my employees.” 

Sudden disappointment punctured Mike’s elation.  “Harvey?  Oh, so he’s got someone at work?” 

She stared at him for a full three seconds before whipping her head back to watch the road, just barely managing to maneuver around a slow turning delivery truck without rear-ending it.  “I’m talking about you, ya idiot.  He pined over you for years.  You went and got engaged to the paralegal, and he assumed it was game over.  Now here you are, in the clear, close enough to touch, but …  Well, let’s just say that one grows tired of putting up with his whining.  Manly whining, to be sure, but annoying all the same.  Oh, look, here we are.” 

She screeched to a stop at the curb in front of Harvey’s building.  Mike put his hand on the door latch, and realized that his mouth had fallen open.  Vanessa was busy eyeing the traffic in her side mirror, probably to avoid meeting his eyes. 

“So …” he began, but thought better of quizzing her any further about Harvey and his pining and whining.  Maybe it was preferable for his peace of mind if he didn’t have the details.  He changed the subject.  “How soon can I start this research you have for me?” 

She handed him a business card.  “Send me your email address.  I’ll get you the paperwork you need to go on the payroll, and then you can check your inbox every morning for assignments.  How’s that sound?” 

“It sounds so great.  I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me.” 

“No need.  I told you before, I’ve been where you are.  Keep your nose clean, be a good employee, and we’ll get along fine.”  She turned her attention back to her side mirror.  “And don’t do crimes,” she intoned. 

“That seems to be the consensus.”  He opened the door, stepped out onto the curb, and then watched the Porshe zoom off into traffic and disappear around the corner.  As he smiled down at the card he held in his hand, he swore to himself that she would not regret giving him this opportunity.  A job.  He pumped his fist in the air.  He had a fucking job. 

 

****** 

 

It was nearly nine o'clock when he got home, but Harvey smelled dinner as soon as he walked in the front door. 

“Good timing,” called Mike from the kitchen, where he was pulling a baking dish out of the oven. 

“Did you cook something besides spaghetti?” asked Harvey incredulously.  He yanked his tie loose and pulled it off. 

“Oh.  Yeah.  I did a thing with some of those salmon filets masquerading as blocks of ice.  And some mustard and various other … there’s this website.  Never mind.  But I found some rice, and reconstituted most of the salad in the back of the refrigerator.” 

“It smells really good.  Let me go change, and I’ll join you.” 

A few minutes later they sat down together at the kitchen counter, and Harvey got his first good look at Mike’s culinary efforts.  It not only smelled good, but it looked good, and tasted even better.  Speaking through a mouthful of succulent salmon, he told Mike as much.  “I doubt anyone has ever made an ancient block of fish-ice taste so good.” 

Mike shrugged modestly. 

“So, what prompted this?” 

“Boredom, mainly.  And the challenge of making something edible out of what passes for ingredients in this place.  Speaking of which …” 

“Yes?” 

“I could cook more often, but I can’t exactly get out to go grocery shopping.  I don’t mind paying, but …” 

Harvey turned in his seat and stretched behind him to the drawer containing their takeout menus.  Near the bottom, he found the piece of paper his was looking for.  “Here you go.  The store two blocks over delivers.  Charge anything you want to my account.” 

“How did I not know about this before?” 

“Takeout’s easier.  If you want to cook, though, I’m not about to discourage you.  Especially if you can make stuff like this.” 

He wasn’t lying.  Dinner was tasty.  Maybe Mike had it in him to become a successful chef after all.  Harvey began imagining the restaurant he’d buy for him, where he could be the head chef, and become famous, and get his own cooking show … 

“I got a job.” 

That brought Harvey’s fantasy of chef hats and crisp white coats to a screeching halt.  He frowned in confusion.  “As a cook?” 

“What?  No.  Vanessa said I could work for her.” 

Harvey let that sink in for a minute, and decided that he liked the idea, even if he was surprised and a little irritated that Vanessa hadn’t run it by him first.  “Congratulations.  You’ll have to let your probation officer know.” 

“I will.  It’s a work at home arrangement, to begin with.  Good thing you got me that computer, by the way.  Then, once they hacksaw this ankle monitor off of me, I’ll also be out in the field, fighting crime and … stuff.” 

“Vanessa doesn’t fight crime.”  Harvey set down his fork and eyed Mike.  “Do you have any clue what she actually does?” 

Mike shrugged.  “Spies on people?  Follows them around and photographs them in compromising positions?  Um … digs up dirt that you can use against them?” 

“Eh.  Close enough.  It’s mostly research, not all that different than what you used to do for me, except a little less ...”  He waggled one hand back and forth.  "She and her crew sometimes do things a lawyer shouldn't get caught doing." 

Mike raised one eyebrow.  "Considering all the things we did, that comment makes me nervous." 

"Nothing illegal, I promise.  Don't worry about it.  She knows what she's doing." 

“Is this …?”  Mike froze and stared at Harvey, frowning.  “Did you put Vanessa up to this?” 

Mike looked and sounded so disappointed that Harvey hurried to reassure him.  “No.  Absolutely not.  Honestly?  I feel like a bit of an idiot that the idea didn’t occur to me sooner.” 

“Oh. Okay.  Good.” 

Mike's reaction confused Harvey.  “Why good?  Has receiving my help become so distasteful to you?” 

“You wouldn’t get it,” Mike mumbled.  He kept his head down while he collected their plates and carried them to the sink. 

“Get what?” 

A heavy sigh from Mike.  He turned slowly to face Harvey.  “I already feel crushed underneath the weight of everything I owe you.  I’m not sure I can take on anymore debt.” 

Harvey wanted to groan, or shake some sense into Mike.  He kept his face impassive.  “This argument is pretty well-worn, don’t you think?  Right now, today, at this moment, you need someone on your side.  I want to be that person.  No, I insist on being that person.  Some day, the situation will be reversed.  Some day, when I – God forbid – break a limb, I'll call on you to wheel me around, or scratch the itch underneath my cast, or cook my meals.  If my condo catches on fire, I'll come stay with you." 

_Unless you're still here,_ he wanted to add.  He hoped he would be able to convince Mike to stick around long after he could afford to move out on his own. 

"So," he continued, "have some patience.  Accept your current circumstances, and be prepared to pay it forward should the situation call for it." 

Mike was staring at him too intently for his comfort, so Harvey went into the living room, taking his time and picking out soothing music.  He could hear Mike in the kitchen, taking care of the cleanup.  Good.  He needed a few minutes to put his thoughts in order.  He'd been putting off talking to Mike about his trip today, but he couldn't avoid it forever.  Prosecutor Atwood expected an answer soon. 

*** 

"No movie tonight?" 

Harvey was seated in his chair, gaze unfocused, tapping his fingers in rhythm with the soft jazz playing.  He shook his head.  "Maybe later.  We need to talk about something first." 

Harvey's words set off a low level panic inside of Mike, and it occurred to him that he should stop reacting to everything as if a live grenade had just been lobbed at his feet.  Breathing in and out to regain calm, he sat down and waited for Harvey to continue. 

"I was back in Hartford this afternoon." 

Okay, so panicking might be appropriate now.  "Why?  They can't go back on the deal, can they?  Why didn't you tell me earlier?" 

"I didn't tell you because I didn't know what the outcome would be, and I saw no reason to upset you unnecessarily." 

"Upset?  Oh, shit, Harvey.  What did that bitch want?  What did she say?" 

"Whoa, slow down.  First of all, Atwood is no Gibbs.  Not even close.  And secondly, nothing changes unless you agree." 

"Agree to what?" 

"She's proposing a modification to your sentence." 

Mike’s first impulse was to squawk out a dozen more questions, but he tamped it down, pressed his lips together, and motioned for Harvey to get on with it. 

"They've located Viking.  His legal name, in case you were wondering, is Lucius Gamble." 

That surprising news diverted Mike’s attention.  “No shit?  Lucius Gamble.  Wow.  That is kind of a dope name, right?" 

"Mike … " 

"Probably goes by Luke.  Cool Hand Luke." 

"Are you done?" 

"Luke, I am your – "  He caught the look on Harvey's face and decided that further deflection would not be a useful strategy.  "Yeah, I'm done." 

"Thank you.  Turns out, he's still living at New Hope House.  The feds found that odd, considering all the money he must be pulling in as sort of 'middle management' in the ID theft ring.  They suspect that the house's director might be involved somehow." 

Mike dug through his memory for a name.  "Eldon Landreau?" 

"That's the one.  I'm guessing you met him during your brief stay there?" 

"Well, yeah.  He didn't seem like the type."  He considered it for a moment.  "He was awfully quick to get me out of there, though.  That was after I turned down Viking – Lucius – the first time." 

"They might be using the house to recruit people.  Landreau probably found someone more willing to fall in line with their scheme." 

Mike scrunched up his forehead in confusion.  "Didn't Atwood say none of the other people arrested that day had a record?" 

Harvey shrugged.  "Could be they had newbies doing the grunt work, and saved the more high-level jobs for repeat offenders." 

"Huh.  I feel vaguely insulted now."   

"Because some criminals questioned your commitment to committing crimes?" 

"Say that five times fast," Mike muttered, and then, louder, "How does any of this involve me, or you, or my sentence?" 

Harvey stared at him, as if undecided.  "I'm not saying I recommend this.  I'm not saying I don't.  You have less than six months to go, and maybe patience is your better choice." 

"Just tell me.  Please." 

"Atwood wants to put you back into New Hope House.  You'd have to convince both Landreau and Gamble that you want in on the action.  Your goal would be to get names, locations, schedules, and eventually testify in court.  If you are successful in helping them get multiple convictions, and shutting down the ring, you would receive a full pardon." 

Sudden hope mingled with anxiety inside of Mike.  He could feel the weight of his monitor, and imagined himself rid of the weight, and the constant itch of knowing it was there.  "But you don't think I should do it?" 

"Like I said, it's your decision." 

"But what do you think?" Mike pressed him.  "Not as my attorney.  What do you think, Harvey?  The truth." 

Harvey spread his hands and shook his head helplessly.  "I don't want you to.  It's too dangerous." 

Mike barely heard him.  He was thinking about being free, really being free this time, with a job, and hope for his future.  He could start paying Harvey back.  He wouldn't even have to leave town to start over.  He wasn't about to make a snap decision, though.  Snap decisions had never served him well.  "How soon does she need an answer?" 

"I can probably stall her for a week or so." 

"Then I'm going to take me time and weigh the pros and cons.  No pun intended." 

Harvey's lips compressed into a thin line.  He gave a sharp nod.  "I'll tell Atwood she'll have her answer in a week." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good news? You get this chapter a day ahead of schedule. The bad news? No boning yet. The boys might have gotten there, but the chapter would have ended up being much longer, so I'm effectively splitting it in two. Which, coincidentally, is what Harvey would like to be doing to Mike. The other good news? No promises, but I expect I'll have the next chapter up early next week (because time off plus no life … yay?). 
> 
> So if you get the next bat signal while you're at work, you might want to wait to open up the story (like Harvey wants to open Mike up) until you're in a safe place, because the dance with no pants will commence … the big nasty … the beast with two backs … the horizontal mambo …damn, I need to learn some euphemisms that aren't a hundred years old ... uh, the quakes with the snakes? (I made that last one up myself ... terrible? yeah, terrible). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll still read the chapter.

As the week passed, Mike edged no closer to making a decision on Atwood's offer, although the very act of _not_ giving an immediate answer felt like a decision of its own. A younger Mike Ross might have charged straight in, determined to take the shortcut, consequences be damned, and ended up regretting his impulsiveness. He’d followed this pattern too many times in the past when he'd felt backed into a corner, and as if the actions he took had been forced on him through circumstance.

This time, he could choose to act, or not to act. He could take the longer, slower route, finish up his house arrest, and delay decisions such as where to live, and what to do about Harvey. Or he could roll the dice, willingly place himself into a potentially dangerous situation, and have his freedom reinstated now, not months from now. Additionally, he could clear his conscience somewhat, and make amends for his recent most criminal pursuits.

As his mind ground uselessly away at the dilemma, he began to search for signs and portents in unlikely places. If the sun peeked out from behind the clouds before he finished his coffee, that meant he should take the offer. If one drop of rain sliding down the window made it to the floor before another, it meant he should refuse. While picking up trash beside the freeway, he played his own version of "he loves me, he loves me not," replacing the usual words with, "I go undercover, I don't go undercover." Every time, he lost track before the endless bits of plastic and soggy paper brought him any resolution.

Luckily, he did not have to focus entirely on his decision. He had plenty to keep him busy and his mind occupied. In addition to his community service obligation, the work Vanessa started sending him now filled large chunks of what had been his free time. His research skills weren't bad to begin with, but Vanessa provided him with tips, and websites and passwords to access those websites. Each time he completed an assignment, she sent him another, along with words of encouragement and praise, which were almost as satisfying as he anticipated his first paycheck would be.

To fill more of his time, he began cooking dinner most nights, finding complicated recipes online, and using the delivery service Harvey had suggested. He had the groceries charged to his own debit card, figuring he would have money coming in soon enough, and could afford to contribute.   Harvey would find out eventually, and maybe give him a bad time about it, but Mike would deal with that fallout when the time came.

He knew Harvey had to be busy at work. He saw firsthand the volume of investigative work Vanessa and her employees were doing for his firm (not that all the work was for Harvey). Still, Harvey usually managed to get home no later than eight, so they could eat together. Mike found himself more relaxed in Harvey's presence. Finally having a job helped, because now he could see the debt he owed, if not shrinking, at least ceasing to multiply at such an alarming rate.

Paradoxically, as their relationship grew outwardly more easy, Mike's internal anxiety began to climb. He'd learned from Vanessa that Harvey's interest in him was neither new, nor fleeting. This news settled something inside of Mike, some lingering paranoia that Harvey's advances held an element of the predatory. At the same time, he was forced to acknowledge that if the feelings pre-dated prison, they were real, and would need to be faced and dealt with if they had any hope for a future, either as friends, or …

Whenever Mike tried to think past that point, his mind shied away, as if confronted with a giant, impenetrable brick wall that made his heart race, and caused his hands and back to grow clammy with sweat.

Harvey never asked, during that week, what Mike planned to do about Atwood's proposal. He did comment more than once on Mike's too obvious air of distraction. Mike allowed him to believe that his absent-mindedness and tendency to gaze blankly at nothing for minutes at a time resulted from aggressively weighing, as he'd said, the pros and cons of agreeing to go undercover.

What he wouldn't admit to Harvey – because he could scarcely admit it to himself – was that the bulk of his distraction was caused by his lengthy consideration of whether he dared go undercover (so to speak) with Harvey.

***

Monday arrived. Mike's answer was due by end of business on that day. Ray showed up to drive him to his scheduled meeting with his probation officer, and stuck around to drive him the five blocks to Dr. Warner's office. After Ray pulled away, Mike remained on the sidewalk, ignoring the chilly bite of the wind as he stared up at the building.

If he took Atwood's offer, and earned his pardon, he could end his visits to Dr. Warner. He didn't doubt that Harvey would happily continue to pay the doctor's hourly rate if Mike chose to continue. Would he continue? He thought about that, barely aware of the pedestrians who were forced to maneuver around the spot where he'd planted himself. He had no idea what he would do, and smiled grimly at the irony. For four years, he'd chafed at having every decision of every single day made for him. Now, he couldn't seem to make a decision to save his life, if one didn't count what to cook for dinner, or whether or not to commit crimes.

Stressing about the future was pointless, he decided. He should simply look at what was in front of him in that moment, and deal with that. Yeah, right. Shaking his head, he marched to the entrance of the building and went inside.

 

***

 

"You're quiet today, Mike. Quieter than usual." Dr. Warner smiled. "Not that I have much data to go on yet, to know what is usual for you."

Mike sighed and made himself smile in return. "Sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."

Dr. Warner pointed at himself. "Hello? Therapist here. Listening to whatever is on your mind is kind of my thing. Maybe I can help you untangle your thoughts. Talk to me."

Mike nearly refused, but then took a moment to consider it. It's what Harvey was paying the doctor for after all.   Mike had been agonizing over his decision for a week, with no resolution in sight. Even the signs remained unclear. A neutral third party might be exactly what he needed.

"Okay," he finally agreed. "You've seen my file, so you're aware that I was arrested a few weeks back, and sentenced to six months with this thing." He lifted his leg so his ankle monitor was visible, and waggled his foot back and forth. "Last week, the prosecutor who handled the case had a meeting with my lawyer."

"With Harvey?"

Mike gave the doctor a sharp look. "Correct. With Harvey. My lawyer. Anyway, the prosecutor wanted to discuss a deal with Harvey that would potentially commute my sentence. I'd be pardoned, and free to live my life without my little friend here." He indicated the monitor once more.

"And you're conflicted about whether or not you want that?"

"I haven't told you the price yet. They want me to go undercover for them, and obtain evidence on the top players in the identity theft ring I got involved with."

"That sounds risky."

Mike grimaced. "Yeah. Maybe. I'm not sure. I'm acquainted with one of the lower level guys already. He knows I'm a legit criminal, if that's not too much of an oxymoron. I wouldn't have to prove myself to them, so that would speed things along."

"If you're hesitating to accept the deal, you must have already considered the downsides."

"Sure. The downsides don't sound so bad. I think I could accomplish what they want me to without much difficulty."

Dr. Warner was frowning at him. "Then why the indecision? Is it an 'honor among thieves' type situation? A sense of loyalty? You don't want to snitch on your buddy?"

Mike gave a huff of laughter. "Not even close. Which is weird. I mean, when I was arrested the first time, they wanted me to turn on Harvey in exchange for a lighter sentence. I never considered it an option, not even remotely, not for one second."

"But now … ?"

"Now, I don't know. No, that's not true. I do know. I'd turn on these guys in a heartbeat. I guess prison messed with my concept of loyalty."

"Did it?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Dr. Warner bit his lower lip. His eyes gleamed as if he'd just learned a secret that either made him happy, or amused him. "What you said was, you wouldn't turn on Harvey, but these other guys? Fuck 'em."

“Something like that.”

Dr. Warner didn’t say anything more on the subject, but he seemed to think he’d made his point. Mike felt the need to defend both himself and Harvey.

“It’s not the same thing. I’d known Harvey longer.” Although, not by much. Viking – Lucius – had been at Altona nearly the entire time Mike had. He was going to argue that no punches had ever been thrown between him and Harvey, but that wasn’t true, was it? During that last memorable encounter in Harvey’s condo, Harvey had thrown brutal verbal punches, using everything in his arsenal against Mike, and Mike had finally fought back with his fists, bloodying Harvey’s lip and knocking him to the floor. It had made him sick to hurt Harvey like that, and it made him sick all over again to remember it now.

“I guess,” he said slowly, “the difference is that I never considered Viking to be my friend, and definitely not my mentor, not like Harvey.”

“Hm. Tell me about Harvey.”

“I thought I just did. He’s my friend. He was my mentor.”

“No, describe him to me. What sort of man is he?”

Mike blew out a breath and attempted to gather his thoughts. “Which Harvey? The one I first met? The one I’m trying to get to know now? The one his clients see? Or the one opposing counsel sees?”

“Any of those. All of them. He looms large in your life, and I’d like to understand him a little better.”

“Ah, okay. Well, to begin with, back when I first met him, he was this magnificently arrogant dick. He dressed like a fucking wet dream. Still does. Never went easy on anyone, except maybe his assistant, Donna, and his driver, Ray.”

“Not you?”

“Hardly. He made me want to quit every other day. But he stuck up for me. He was always in my corner, willing to put himself on the line to back me up. Until … “

“Until what?”

“Until I fucked up and betrayed him. I didn’t mean to, but I was scared for my own neck at the time.”

“What did he do?”

“Oh, he was livid. Read me chapter and verse from the Gospel of Loyalty. Which I guess is the same thing as the Gospel of Harvey. And he, uh, he cut me loose. Would barely speak to me, much less work with me”

“That must have hurt.”

“Sure. He forgave me eventually. And you'd better believe I learned my lesson about the importance of loyalty.”

Dr. Warner had his elbow propped on the arm of his chair, and his chin rested on his fist. “Hm. What else? You said that was the old Harvey. How has he changed? Has he mellowed?”

Mike nearly laughed at that. “I don’t think so. I don’t get to see him at work anymore, but he runs a kickass law firm. I doubt if he can attribute his success to the spreading of warm fuzzies. He’s always been more of a press until it hurts kind of guy.”

Dr. Warner raised one eyebrow.

Mike felt himself go pink. “Not like that. I don’t think so anyway. How would I know?” He shook his head and stared out the window.

Dr. Warner sighed. “It sounds as if Harvey has bent over backwards to help you get yourself back on your feet.”

Mike shrugged one shoulder as he tracked a rapidly moving cloudbank which looked as if it could be carrying snow.

“I’m just saying, Mike, that I have plenty of friends and acquaintances in my life, but I can’t name a single one who I would welcome into my home the way Harvey has you, or to whom I would offer my indefinite, unwavering support. Family members, yes. My wife and children, absolutely. But not even the man I consider my best friend would get more than a night or two on my couch.”

“Harsh,” muttered Mike.

“Reality,” Dr. Warner countered. “I’ll ask you one more time, and I’d like you to think carefully before you answer. Is Harvey Specter just a friend? Or is he more to you than that?”

Mike did think about it, just as he’d been thinking about it for weeks on end, and he came up with the same answer as he always did. “Maybe he could have been once. I believe that’s what he thinks he wants.”

“But … ?”

“But it’s impossible now.”

“Why?”

Mike pressed his lips together and shook his head. He refused to make eye contact, instead keeping his gaze on the constantly changing sky. "Because it is. And because he wouldn't want me if he had all the facts."

"Which facts are those?"

Mike shook his head again, but didn't answer.

Dr. Warner’s voice grew soft. “I have your medical records from Altona, Mike. I’m aware that you were sexually assaulted during your first months there.”

And there it was. Right out in the open. Nothing ambiguous about that. Sure, “sexual assault,” not “rape,” but still sitting there in the middle of the room in all of its shameful ugliness.

“Sit down, please.”

He hadn’t even realized that he’d lurched to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest as he measured the distance to the door. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t bolt. He could see Dr. Warner's lips moving, but for long seconds only a loud buzzing noise filling his head. When it subsided, he realized that Dr. Warner was murmuring words probably meant to soothe and calm.

“What happened, Mike, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I was so stupid,” he rasped.

“You were trying to cope in a new and stressful environment. I’m sorry to say that what happened to you isn’t all that unusual. But you survived. You adapted to your circumstances, and found your way through all of the shit, and here you are. Let me repeat, in case it didn’t sink in the first time. It wasn’t your fault. And you survived.”

A minute or so of silence, while Mike counted his own harsh, panting breaths.

“Please sit down, Mike.” Dr. Warner sounded as if he was speaking to a skittish animal. It worked, though, and finally Mike sank slowly back down onto the edge of the couch. He gave the doctor a wary look before staring down at his own hands, wishing he could just disappear.

Eventually, the silence became too oppressive, and Mike began to speak in a low monotone. "There were four, maybe five of them. I never knew for sure." He watched his hands knot up into fists, and kept them pressed to his knees. "I thought I was over it."

Dr. Warner stayed quiet, as if waiting for Mike to say whatever he needed to in his own time. The attack replayed in his mind in nauseating detail, but he couldn't bear to speak of it out loud. He gave his head a rough shake, trying to dispel the images, and swallowed hard. "I ran into one of them a few weeks back. He spoke to me as if we were old friends. As if he hadn't – " Mike shook his head in remembered disbelief. He shot a fleeting look at Dr. Warner and whispered, jaw tight, "I wanted to kill him."

His voice broke on the last word, and he bowed his head, covering his face with one hand as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. Finally, he lifted his head and wiped away tears with the back of his hand. "It doesn’t matter," he said bitterly. "It happened. Can't change that. I just wish – " He pressed his lips together to capture words that he didn’t want to hear himself speak out loud.

"You wish what?"

Mike fixed his forlorn gaze on the colorful throw rug on the floor between them. He wished he didn't feel so broken. He wished he could feel normal again. Even with his otherwise flawless memory, he couldn't remember what that felt like.

“Harvey kissed me,” he suddenly admitted, surprising himself, and snuck another look at the doctor. He didn't appear shocked, only thoughtful and filled with infinite patience. "The first time, he took me by surprise. It didn't go well. So … awkward. The second time, I initiated it." His laugh sounded like a croak. "It wasn't so much a kiss as a thrown gauntlet. With lips and teeth. I didn't know if I wanted to fight him or kiss him."

"Did you figure it out?"

"Oh, he did. He flipped it around on me."

A head tilt from the doctor. "Is he a good kisser?"

Mike went weak inside just thinking about it. "Yeah. He is. The bastard."

"And did you take it any further?"

Mike shook his head, frowning. "I couldn't. I can't. Not possible."

"Have you told him what happened to you in prison?"

"What do you think? I don't want his pity. Or I should say, more of his pity."

Dr. Warner tapped his pen on the arm of his chair for several seconds. His gaze had gone unfocused, but it sharpened suddenly, and he pinned Mike with it. "Do you love Harvey?"

Mike felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It hurt to breathe. "What?" he asked faintly. "No. I mean … I don't know what I mean." He rubbed his forehead. "Yes. I do. I suppose I always have." Even when he thought he’d hated him.

"Is it possible he feels the same way?"

Mike spread his hands at his sides, growing weary of the subject. "It seems pretty clear what he wants, but I can't give it to him."

"Are you certain of that?" Dr. Warner tilted his head in the other direction. "What do you think he wants? And why can't you give it to him?"

This seemed so painfully obvious, that Mike nearly groaned out loud. "Sex, Doc. Like a normal person. _With_ a normal person. I'm not. And I can't. Look, let me save us some time here. I'm reasonably sure how this conversation goes. You say, 'why can't you?' And I say, 'because I'm garbage.' And you say, 'why do you think that?' And I say … I say … I don't know what I say. It's just, Harvey is this amazing person, and he deserves an equally amazing person in his life. He doesn't need some shitty rehab project like me."

"I've got news for you, Mike. We're all works in progress, every one of us. Even Harvey."

"Even you?"

"Definitely me."

The doctor shifted in his seat, squaring himself up with Mike. "Right now, you're down in a hole. You're in so deep that all you can see is the darkness. Something will boost you up out of it, maybe a new friendship, or a line in a book, or the start of a new habit or hobby, or finding a job. Maybe coming in here and talking to me every week will help you start that climb up out of your hole. Maybe it will result from accepting the prosecutor's offer and helping to put away some criminals. If your feelings persist, you can always consider medication.

“You don't know yet what it will be that begins the shift inside of you, and neither do I, but I'm going to look you right in the eyes right now and guarantee you that it will happen. All you have to do is hold on, have faith, and be ready for it when the time comes, because one day soon your life is going to open up and become filled with so much light you won't remember what the darkness looks like."

Mike had been caught in Dr. Warner's intensely direct gaze. He blinked and looked away, wanting so much to believe him. He cleared his throat. "You can't know that. And it wouldn't change things with Harvey. I can't change the past."

"You know what they say: the past is history, the future is a mystery, and today is a gift. That's why they call it the present."

Mike groaned. "Oh, shit. You didn't actually just say that, did you?"

Dr. Warner chuckled. "Too much? How about this then: the past, the present and the future walked into a bar. It was tense."

"I cannot believe I was starting to like you."

"Okay, okay, I guess I'll save my dad jokes for my kids." He glanced at his watch. "Our time's almost up. I believe we made some good progress today. Here's something I'd like you to think about this week. If you want a future with Harvey, you are going to need to take a risk and tell him the truth. I don't know Harvey. I don't know how he'll react. If he's as amazing as you say he is, it won't change the way he feels about you. If it does, you should be aware of that before attempting a relationship with him. Makes sense?"

Mike dragged a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I guess." He started to stand up, but then relaxed back onto the couch. "You never said what you think I should do about the whole undercover thing."

"Come on, Mike. You didn't really expect me to choose for you, did you?"

"I was hoping. It's either you or the quarter I've got in my pocket."

"If you truly cannot make up your mind, a coin flip can be a valid decision making tool."

Mike eyed him suspiciously, suspecting another tired platitude or awful pun was about to come out of his mouth, but the doctor said nothing further. He closed Mike's file and set it aside, which Mike took as his cue to leave. He didn't bother telling the doctor that he might or might not be back, depending on what he decided – or what his trusty quarter decided for him.

 

******

 

Atwood was expecting an answer from Mike before five o'clock, so Harvey made a rare early departure from work and went home. He found Mike hard at work in the kitchen, slicing and dicing and opening the oven door to check on whatever it was that was sending such a wonderful fragrance throughout the condo.

Mike looked up, wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, and set his knife down on the cutting board. "Hey. I was about to call you."

Harvey took off his jacket and carried it with him as he strolled toward the kitchen. "I decided to get your answer from you face to face."

He watched Mike go inexplicably pink at his words, and avert his gaze, turning back to the counter and resuming his attack on the vegetables. His knife made a rapid, rhythmic thunking as he reduced several carrots to tiny pieces. "I, uh, couldn't decide what to do, so I flipped a coin. Then I tried two out of three, and three out of five, and I got the same answer." He favored Harvey with a brief sideways glance. "I hope you won't be disappointed in me."

"Well? Tell me. I need to call Atwood. Mike? Look at me."

Mike bit his lip. He stopped chopping and turned to face Harvey, holding the knife between them, and gesturing with it for emphasis as he spoke. "I'm not taking the new deal. They can find someone who gets paid to put themselves into dangerous situations to get those guys. I'm not taking the shortcut this time. I'm going to do the full six months, and finish my community service, and go see Dr. Warner every week like I agreed to do." He shrugged. "I know you said that's what you wanted me to do, so I hope you meant it. I'm not taking the easy way out. And I hope you don't get sick of my face while I'm here."

It was a struggle not to break out into a huge, happy grin, but Harvey had spent years honing the art of hiding his true feelings. He frowned, trying to appear thoughtful. "It's going to be rough, dealing with a live-in chef who cooks the most amazing, surprising meals, and has them waiting for me when I get home at night." He did smile now. "But I think I'll manage somehow." He wanted to rush forward, grasp Mike's shoulders, pull him into a hug, maybe kiss him stupid for a few minutes, or hours. He leaned his hip against the counter, and didn't try to hide how happy he was. "Seriously, Mike. I’m relieved. I think you made the correct choice."

Mike appeared as relieved as Harvey felt, although for different reasons. Had he been that worried about what Harvey would think?

"I'm going to go change out of these clothes and call Atwood. I'd suggest going out for dinner, but it looks like you've put in a good bit of effort on this. Maybe this weekend … ?" Anxiety spiked through him as he realized that he had just asked Mike out on a date. "To celebrate," he added lamely.

Mike gave an uncomfortable laugh. "Celebrate what? Five months more of a mopey ex-con skulking around your home?"

Harvey experienced a flare of annoyance, but wrestled it down. "Don't put words in my mouth. We haven't gone out for a nice dinner together since you got out. And there is plenty to celebrate. Your job, for one thing. If that's not enough, then …" He thought rapidly for several seconds. "We can celebrate nearly four weeks of you being crime-free."

Mike's surprised laugh sounded more natural, and his mischievous grin was a beautiful thing to behold. "We could put a sign up on the wall: '28 Days Crime Free,' or something like that."

Harvey shook his head, but he was smiling as he made his way to the bedroom to change and make his call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading despite the lack of boning!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments and kudos! I appreciate every one of them.

"Harvey, we need to talk."

It was three days later, and they were both in the living room, Mike on the couch, and Harvey in his chair, each with a laptop resting on their legs, getting some work done after dinner. Harvey saved the document he was working on and closed his laptop, setting it out of the way on the coffee table. "Okay. What's up?"

Mike appeared nervous. He closed his laptop, but held onto it, as if he needed for a shield. "I … oh man, this isn't easy."

Harvey examined Mike more closely, taking note of his tense shoulders, his furrowed brow, and the muscle twitching erratically in his jaw, and feeling himself growing anxious as well. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Mike let out an abrupt laugh and shook his head. “No. I mean, not recently.” He finally set his laptop carefully next to Harvey’s. “I just … I have to tell you something. Did I already say that? Shit. I don’t want to say this out loud, and you don’t want to hear it, but I need to get it out just the same.”

Mike ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up on the crown of his head. Harvey fought the urge to go over there and smooth it down for him. “It’s all right. Just say whatever you need to say. What’s the problem?”

Mike smiled grimly, seeming to have difficulty maintaining eye contact with Harvey. “Ah. See, this conversation could potentially go sideways. I don’t want to jeopardize this … the equilibrium we’ve established.”

Harvey had no idea what had Mike so twisted up in knots, but his own heart began an alarmed thudding inside his chest as he ran through the possible reasons. “Whatever is wrong,” he said, “we can fix it.”

Another harsh laugh from Mike. “Not so sure about that.” He twined his hands together and blew out a breath. “Oh, man. This would be a lot easier of I was allowed to drink.”

Harvey was about half a second himself from heading to the liquor cabinet. It became an act of courage to simply sit still, and wait patiently for Mike to get out whatever it was he needed to say.

Finally, Mike started to talk once more. “So. Here’s the thing. Confession time. When we first met, all those years ago at the Chilton, I did everything I could to impress you. I wanted the job, sure, but I also wanted you to look at me, to see me as more than some sketchy kid who blundered into the room with a briefcase full of pot. I wanted you to admire me.”

The look Mike shot at Harvey was filled with bitterness aimed squarely back at himself. “I wasn’t about to admit it back then, but the first thing I thought when I saw you was, ‘holy fuck this lawyer guy is hot.’ And the second thing, right on the heels of that first thought, was, ‘a loser like me stands no chance with that.’ I never thought you’d actually offer me the job, but I wanted to at least demonstrate to you that I could be worthy of it. So I showed off the only way I knew how, and wonder of wonders, I got the job.” He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“Can I tell you something?” asked Harvey. “You did impress me, obviously, but I never would have indulged you at all if … Well, I didn’t want you to walk out of there and out of my life for good. So I allowed you to show off, and then you proceeded to dazzle me with your brilliant brain.”

“Maybe you should have dated me, instead of hiring me.” Mike waved a hand in the air, as if to erase what he’d just said. “Not that I regret the job, and everything that came after. Most everything.” He sighed, and frowned more deeply than ever. “We can’t go back to the start, can we? All we can do is keep moving forward.” He swallowed several times, as if his mouth had gone dry, and then smiled wryly. “You’re one hell of a kisser, you know that?”

Harvey did know. He gave a modest, one-shouldered shrug, wondering where this walk down memory lane was leading.

“We have a chance now,” continued Mike, addressing his hands which were fisted on his knees. “I’m no longer in one of my dead end relationships. Guessing by your presence here every night, you’re also a free agent at the moment.”

Mike gave Harvey a questioning look. He nodded at Mike to confirm, and Mike went back to staring down at his hands. Mike’s words had given him hope, but his twitchy attitude continued to worry Harvey.

“I’m going to tell you something,” said Mike, “that until last Monday I never thought I’d tell another person. I thought I had buried it way down where I would never have to acknowledge it ever again, but then it came up at my therapy session. Dr. Warner thought I should tell you this … thing. This bad thing that happened in prison.”

Harvey’s heart seemed to stutter inside of him as Mike’s hesitant, rambling speech began to make sense. He now suspected he knew what Mike was going to say. It hurt him to watch Mike’s struggle, and knew it would hurt more to hear from his own mouth what Harvey had only guessed. He was tempted to interrupt him, and let him know that he knew, but maybe Mike needed to get it all out, to say the words which might begin his healing. Besides, Harvey would be the worst kind of coward to refuse to hear him out. Mike had experienced it firsthand. Harvey would only be hearing it secondhand.

He steeled himself, and waited expectantly. Mike’s breathing sped up, and his hands tightened. He closed his eyes momentarily and then opened them again, snaring Harvey in his direct blue gaze. His lips crimped together, as if he simply couldn’t get the next words past them.

Moving slowly, not wanted to spook Mike, Harvey stood up and crossed the room to sit next to him on the couch. He wanted to reach over and give him a reassuring touch, but his instincts counselled against it, at least for the moment. “Hey,” he said gently, “it’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

Mike nodded, appearing on the verge of panic. “I don’t want you to think differently about me afterwards. I don’t want you to hate me.”

Harvey frowned at him. “That would never happen. I could never hate you.” He waited, watching Mike’s eyes fill with moisture. “If it helps, give me your hand.” Mike hesitated, but finally disentangled his fingers and allowed Harvey to take possession of one clammy hand. He held it carefully in both of his, rubbing one thumb soothingly over vulnerable knobby knuckles. “Talk to me. Please.”

A long, soft exhalation of air. “You were right, when you told me to watch my back. First rule of prison life. Most important rule. The rule I never could seem to remember, my first months inside.” He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “Not that I could have stopped it from happening, I suppose, even if I’d seen them coming.”

His hand tightened around Harvey’s and he slouched down, head resting on the back of the couch, gaze on the far wall. His voice dropped, and Harvey had to struggle to make out the words. “This group of inmates jumped me on my way to work detail. They dragged me into a supply closet. There was a … a bag over my head. They held me down and … and they took turns with me.” Every muscle in his jaw had gone rigid with remembered pain or anger or fear. His mouth worked convulsively, struggling to get the words out. “It went on. And on. And on.”

“Mike, you don’t have to …”

“Yes I do,” he practically shouted, pulling his hand free and hugging his arms to his chest. He’d reared back into the corner of the couch. “I need to tell you every ugly, humiliating detail, so you know what you’re dealing with. After that, you can decide how you feel about it, and you can tell me now, right now, tonight, so I don’t have to waste another second wondering and worrying. You can tell me whether or not we still have a chance. Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t carry this around inside me for one more second. If you don’t want me here anymore, I’ll figure something out. I’ll find a place to live, and you’ll never have to look at me again.”

Harvey took a careful breath before answering. “The last thing,” he said slowly, “that I’m going to do is sit in judgment of you. I said you could tell me anything, and I meant it. So tell me. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. I can take it. If this helps you, tell me all of it. Don’t leave anything out.”

Mike’s eyes were huge blue pools of anguish. He stared at Harvey for long seconds and then nodded, and some of the panic visibly receded from his expression. He started to talk.

***

Two minutes into Mike’s story, Harvey wanted to vomit. Five minutes in, and he wanted the privilege of donning boxing gloves and pounding the face of every one of Mike’s attackers until they split and bled. Fuck gloves, he’d do it with his bare fists.

When Mike got to the part where he’d run into one of those animals a few weeks earlier, Harvey begin plotting murder and mayhem. Not that he would follow through, but it eased some of his rage. He wondered how Mike had lived with this for four years without losing his mind. He did his best to camouflage his more violent urges, but judging by the wary looks Mike was giving him, he did not fully succeed.

Finally, Mike finished talking. He appeared shaken, but calmer than when he’d begun. They sat together in silence, listening to the building creak and settle around them.

“I’m sorry – ” Harvey began, but Mike interrupted him immediately.

“Fuck I’m sorry. I’m supposed to believe it wasn’t my fault.”

“And it wasn’t!”

“I’m working on that. But what I wanted to say was, if it wasn’t my fault, it mostly certainly wasn’t yours. So don’t tell me you’re sorry. Don’t, for god’s sake, feel sorry for me. That’s not what I want. That’s not why I told you.”

Harvey nodded, fighting to regain control of his emotions, and to remind himself what Mike had said earlier. Miraculously, he still wanted to attempt a relationship with Harvey. Whether or not that happened hinged entirely on how Harvey responded now. He reached over to take Mike’s hand again, and was relieved when he encountered no resistance. Even better, Mike twined his fingers with Harvey’s and gave him a squeeze in return.

“You said you were afraid,” began Harvey, “that knowing what happened to you would make me feel differently about you. And I suppose I do, but only because now I understand, better than I did before, what you need, and what you don’t need from me. I know to go slow, and tread lightly.”

Mike sighed. “I wish I could say that you’re wrong. I mean, I don’t object to kissing. Or touching. I just don’t know … “ He covered his face with his free hand. “Allowing you – or anyone – inside me … it terrifies me. All I can think about is how much it hurt. I thought they were going to kill me. So you need to know that if we go forward with this, you could end up saddled with a man who can’t ever give you everything you want.”

Harvey gently pried Mike’s hand from his face and touched a finger to his chin, turning him so that they were face to face. He was dying to kiss him, but that would have to wait a bit longer. “First of all, are you so certain you know what I want? You’re assuming facts not in evidence. I trained you better than that. And secondly, I’m nothing if not endlessly creative. If anal penetration is off the table for you in perpetuity, so be it. You’re not just some hole to me. I care about you. If you’re not happy, or satisfied, then neither am I. And just so you know, alpha dog lawyer persona notwithstanding, I’ve never had an issue with bottoming. I enjoy it, in fact. Perhaps the majority of my partners have assumed otherwise, but I’d be delighted to take that role for as long as you need. Permanently, even.”

Mike was blushing by the time Harvey finished talking, but he’d maintained eye contract through the whole speech. Now he dropped his eyes and bit his lower lip. “That … was some blunt talk.”

Harvey had to fight not to laugh at Mike’s apparent shyness, and to remind himself of his history. He, on the other hand, had never seen the point of mincing words when it came to negotiating wants and needs in the bedroom. “Can you live with that?” he asked. “We can take things as slow as you like. You’re in the driver’s seat here, in every way.” When Mike didn’t answer immediately, he prompted, “Well? Talk to me. Should we give this a go?”

“Yeah,” Mike murmured. “I want to.”

And then to Harvey’s surprise, Mike crawled into his lap, knees straddling Harvey’s thighs, hands braced on the couch behind Harvey, and kissed him. Harvey gave a low hum of pleasure and cradled Mike’s face with one palm, following Mike’s lead and keeping the kiss soft and exploratory. His other hand crept down to cup Mike’s bottom. He began to grow hard, and when Mike began a gentle rocking against him, he could feel Mike’s answering hardness. Too soon, though, Mike lifted his head and rolled back onto his spot on the couch. Harvey licked his lips and gripped the edge of the couch to prevent himself from hauling Mike back for more.

Mike laughed breathlessly. “Wow.”

Harvey gave a grunt meant to signal agreement. He eyed Mike fondly, and for once didn’t try to disguise his feelings, allowing a wide, natural grin to split his face. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

“So, how should we do this?” Mike blushed again. “I don’t mean positions and so forth. I mean, this has been a long time coming, and I sort of want to do it right.”

Harvey felt the same way. “We were supposed to have that date Saturday night. Your house arrest means I can’t take you to a nice restaurant like I wanted to, but I can insist that you take a night off from the kitchen. I’ll wine and dine you. Or just dine you, I guess, if that even makes sense.” He felt as if he was tripping over his words, which was a novel experience. “Anyway. To summarize. Saturday. Date night. No laptops. No work allowed. And we’ll see where the night leads, which means exactly as far as you’re ready to take it. Sound good?”

Mike nodded, lips twisting into a hesitant smile. “Yeah. This turned out better than I thought it would. Thanks, by the way. It helped to talk about it.”

A pained grunt from Harvey. “Speak for yourself. I think you took at least ten years off of my life.” At Mike’s uncertain look, he leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his temple. “You’re welcome.” And then, deciding they could both use a diversion to allow their emotions to settle, he asked, “Want to watch a movie?”

Mike glanced over at his laptop. “I have some more work I could be doing, but I doubt I’d get much accomplished right now. So, yeah, a movie sounds good.”

 

******

 

Mike couldn’t leave the condo Saturday night, but Harvey sent him into his bedroom with strict orders not to come out until he was summoned. Mike took a book with him and tried to concentrate on the words and sentences and paragraphs and plot, but soon gave it up as impossible. He was stretched out on Harvey’s bed, and the scent of him filled his senses. Would they wind up back here together later tonight?

He still could scarcely believe Harvey’s offer. Anytime that Mike had fantasized how it might go between them, back when he used to fantasize about such things, it had always been him on the bottom, usually on his hands and knees, with Harvey moving savagely behind him, ruthlessly chasing his own pleasure while Mike held on for the ride.

He stroked himself idly through his jeans and reversed their positions in his mind. Stuffing the knuckles of his other hand into his mouth, he did his best to muffle his groan. He could be inside Harvey tonight, in a matter of hours, or less. He could be fucking Harvey tonight. How crazy was that?

He pictured himself pounding into a kneeling Harvey, making him moan and cry out Mike’s name. He couldn’t quite bring that into focus, and he helped the imagined Harvey roll onto his back, so he could watch his face, and drape Harvey’s legs over his shoulders. He let this play in his head for several minutes, enjoying the image. Then Harvey’s face altered, and became Mike’s face, contorted in pain and screaming silently.

“Fuck.” Shaking, Mike sat up and moved to perch on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his forehead, as if that would erase the disturbing image. He was still fighting it off when the bedroom door opened. He rose to his feet to face Harvey.

“Everything’s ready out here,” said Harvey. He peered at Mike curiously. “Are you all right?”

Was he? Could he handle this? “Sure. Never better.”

Harvey didn’t look as if he completely believed him, but after a few moments of scrutiny, he stretched out his hand, and Mike took it, and allowed himself to be led out of the bedroom.

In the living room, the lights had been turned down, and a single fat pillar candle flickered on the coffee table. The piles of old mail and newspapers had disappeared from the dining table, and the place settings and centerpiece that had replaced them looked elegant enough to rival the finest restaurants in the city.

“Nice,” said Mike. “Smells good, too. Should I change into a suit and tie?”

Harvey was dressed just as casually as Mike. He smiled, shaking his head. “You look fine.” He let go of Mike’s hand and pulled out a chair for him. “Have a seat while I put the food on. I wish I could say I prepared it myself, but I lack your aptitude for cooking, I’m afraid.”

Mike sat in the chair and surveyed the table. A row of flickering votive candles wandered up the center of the table. A short, wide, blue ceramic vase had been stuffed with red roses, and their scent competed with the light, waxy scent of candles. Mike watched as Harvey carried out two plates, setting one in front of Mike, and placing the other at his own spot across the table.

“Nothing fancy,” said Harvey. “Prime rib, salad, roasted potatoes.” He sat down.

“Sounds perfect.”

“And, because this is a special occasion, the best not-champagne money can buy.” Harvey lifted a chilled bottle of sparkling cider and poured the non-alcoholic beverage into two cut-crystal flutes. “To new beginnings.”

Harvey raised his glass, and Mike did the same, clinking them together. “New beginnings,” he murmured, and drank.

If Mike thought being on a date with Harvey might feel awkward, or that conversation would be stilted, he was wrong. Not only was Harvey a great kisser, he could carry and steer a conversation past all of the potential icebergs, and keep it flowing smoothly. Mike found himself laughing at Harvey’s stories of clients and cases that had not gone as planned. In turn, he found himself opening up about some of the more entertaining characters he’d come across in prison. He even had some “cases” of his own to share, from his Jackmacoy years.

They finished dinner, and Harvey served up chocolate cake and coffee. After that, they moved to the couch, sitting pressed together while Harvey scrolled through their Netflix choices. Nothing sounded appealing to Mike, and he finally pried the remote out of Harvey’s grasp and turned off the television.

“We need to get this over with.”

Harvey raised one eyebrow. “If that is how you view a physical relationship between the two of us, then you obviously aren’t yet ready for it.”

Not for the first time that night, Mike wished he was at least partially drunk. The world would have been agreeably blurred around the edges, and he and Harvey could have fallen together and let alcohol-fueled nature take its inevitable course.

“I’m serious, Harvey. I’m tired of thinking about this, and worrying how every little detail will go. I mean, my God, this just got so awkward that I feel like I’ve been re-virginated. I did have an active sex life before … well, before everything imploded.”

Harvey chuckled. “Oh, I know. I had a front row seat to that parade of women that stampeded through your life.”

“Tenth row at best. And I’d hardly call it either a parade, or a stampede.” He twisted his mouth, considering whether or not he should say more, and then decided, _fuck it._ “You want to talk parades? You never knew about the all the quick hook-ups I indulged in whenever you gave me a night off.”

“Didn’t I? My powers of observation were, and are, just fine. Would it surprise you to know that you have a tell? And I’m not talking about your funny walk and pained way of sitting. I’m talking about your marked inability to meet my eyes on one of your morning afters.”

Mike stared at him for long seconds. “You _knew_?

“I read people for a living. Of course I knew.”

But he’d never said a word. Mike might be smart, but he realized that he’d missed too much where Harvey was concerned. “Shit. I suddenly feel the urge to apologize.”

Harvey shook his head. “Don’t.” He touched the side of Mike’s face. “We’re starting over, remember? I meant what I said the other day. You are one hundred percent in the driver’s seat here. Tell me what you want.”

Mike sighed, feeling every muscle in his body clench with nerves. A great deal of his hesitation was directly related to what had happened in prison. Added to that, ratcheting his nerves up, close to panic territory, was the knowledge that this was Harvey Specter, the man of his dreams, and his nightmares, the man he had loved, and hated and wanted for so many years. The moment was finally here, and he was terrified.

In spite of that, he wasn’t going to back down, or run from this. He steeled his spine and started talking.

“I, uh, okay, I want for both of us to take off all our clothes, go climb into your bed, and see what happens. I think …” He breathed in and out a few times. “I want to make you come, and see what that looks like, and if it lives up to my imagination. I don’t know what else. Let’s just …” He stood up and held out his hand to Harvey. His heart nearly cracked open from the way Harvey was staring back at him, so serious and focused, eyes so dark and fathomless that Mike could have happily drowned inside of them.

Harvey let himself be pulled to his feet, murmuring, “I fully support that plan. Let’s go.”

***

Naked underneath Harvey’s comforter, Mike watched him undress, mouth going dry from the sight of it. He was so beautiful. Mike might have made any number of age related jokes at Harvey’s expense over the years, but he wasn’t laughing now. The man took care of himself, no question about it. His body was trim, and muscled, and milk-pale. He shimmied out of his boxer briefs and his gorgeous, long, cut cock stood halfway at attention.

Mike licked his lips. “C’mere,” he whispered, shedding the covers. “Lie down next to me.”

Harvey did as Mike requested, and his eyes glittered in the near darkness. He’d brought the pillar candle in from the living room and set it on his dresser, filling the room with a softly flickering light. “You can touch me if you want, Mike. You can do whatever you want.”

Mike realized he’d been caught staring, and was grateful that the shadows in the room hid his blush. “I want … I think I want to suck you.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Harvey shoved a pillow behind himself, raising his head up, probably in anticipation of viewing Mike in action.

Mike licked his lips and repositioned himself so that he was lying between Harvey’s legs with his own feet brushing the floor. This was familiar territory for him, and he felt the main portion of his nerves dissolve as he wrapped his hand around Harvey’s cock and licked the head, dragging the tip of his tongue across the slit, and collecting the salty pearl of pre-come which he discovered there. “I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured.

He licked all around the head and then enveloped it with his mouth, sucking gently. Harvey moved restlessly beneath him before going still once more. Mike increased his suction, holding the tip captive inside his mouth while his hand stroked up and down the shaft. This produced a low moan from Harvey. Mike lifted his head to get a look at Harvey’s face, and found himself regarded in return. Harvey’s inky eyes had fallen halfway closed, and his lower lip was caught between his teeth.

_Holy fuck_ , thought Mike. Every filthy fantasy he’d ever entertained had in no way prepared him for _that look_. He lowered his head to the base of Harvey’s cock, licked his balls, and sucked first one, and then the other gently into his mouth, testing their texture and taste, inhaling their scent. Harvey’s hand landed on his head, not pushing or forcing, just touching him, fingers threading through his hair.

Mike applied his tongue to the base of Harvey’s cock and licked slowly up its length, mapping every ridge and vein. He reached the tip and dipped down again, giving the cock a thorough tongue bath. He treated himself to another look at Harvey, who had thrown his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. His chest heaved up and down, and he almost looked as if he was in pain, but Mike knew better. Deciding that he would save extended, torturous teasing for another time, Mike took the tip into his mouth and suckled strongly, concentrating his tongue just below the head, holding the shaft in one hand and use his other hand to play with his balls.

“God, Mike,” Harvey rasped. “That’s good. So good.”

How could Mike have forgotten what praise from Harvey felt like? Hearing those words from him made him hard, and eager and indescribably happy. He grunted around Harvey’s cock head, and pushed lower. When his lips made contact with his own hand, he lifted off, breathed in and out a few times, and then took Harvey in, all the way to the root, not stopping until his nose nestled into his wiry pubic hair. He swallowed around him, again and again.

“Fuck, Mike. How are you – ? I’m close.” He tugged at Mike’s hair in warning.

Mike pulled partway off, holding the tip in his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. His hand became a blur as he jacked Harvey off.

“Mike – ” Harvey froze and cried out wordlessly, hips lifting off the bed as he jerked and came inside Mike mouth. Mike didn’t attempt to swallow it all, but allowed Harvey’s come to pool inside his mouth and dribble out the edges, down his chin and neck. When Harvey finally stopped moving, Mike lifted his head and smiled at him, fully aware of the picture he made with Harvey’s semen spilling over his lips.

Sentience gradually returned to Harvey’s eyes. He reached down and swiped his thumb across Mike’s lower lip. “You look like sin personified,” he murmured, voice husky, and then he groaned as Mike closed his lips around his glistening thumb and sucked. “Fuck.”

Mike licked his lips and smiled.

Harvey sat up a little and frowned. “Did you …?”

“Not yet.” He’d been too busy watching Harvey come apart, but now he felt his need keenly.

Harvey reached over to the nightstand and opened the drawer, revealing lube and enough condoms to survive the zombie apocalypse. “My offer stands. If you want. Otherwise, I can return the favor. Just tell me what you want.”

Mike hadn’t imagined he’d get to this point so quickly, but everything came so easily with Harvey, and he knew with utter certainty what he wanted. “You. I want you. I want to fuck you.” He hesitated, though. “Should I … do you want to wait until you’re ready to go again?” He considered how close he was, how ready to explode, and began to worry that he’d embarrass himself by shooting before he even got inside of Harvey.

Harvey must have seen the worry on his face, and seemed to interpret it correctly. “Would you like to take the edge of for now? We could have nice, slow, morning sex.”

Mike nodded, grateful that Harvey had sorted it all for them. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and got up to pad into the bathroom, where he rinsed and spit and washed his face. Next time, he would swallow. Tonight, it had seemed like too much at once. He stared at himself in the mirror, at his flushed face, disordered hair, and his jutting erection which smeared his belly with pre-come. He took himself in hand, figuring he’d take care of himself before returning to bed. He’d managed a few quick tugs when a movement in his peripheral vision had his gaze darting back to the mirror to find Harvey standing behind him, a disapproving look on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Harvey.

“Um.” Mike froze with his hand wrapped around his dick.

Harvey shook his head, frowning, but with an amused twinkle in his eye. “When I said take the edge off, I intended to do it for you. He stepped behind Mike, pressing himself to his back, and reached around to wrap his hand over Mike’s, so they were both holding Mike’s cock. “Is this okay?” he asked.

Meeting Harvey’s eyes in the mirror, Mike nodded carefully.

Harvey’s warm breath wafted in his ear as he whispered, “Then let go and allow me.”

Mike extricated his hand.

“Hold onto the edge of the counter. That’s it. Now widen your stance slightly. Good. Don’t take your eyes off of yourself.”

Mike was already close, and it only took a dozen or so quick strokes for Harvey to bring him off. He arched his back, gave one sharp, loud cry, and watched his semen splat against the counter and into the sink. Harvey wrapped both arms around his middle, holding him up and planting soft, damp kisses down his neck and along his shoulder. Mike let him, mesmerized by the sight of them in the mirror. Finally, he wriggled loose enough to turn around in the circle of Harvey’s arms and wrap his arms around his neck. They kissed, long and slow and wet, as Mike’s knees grew wobbly and weak.

Harvey lifted his head and rubbed a knuckle across Mike’s cheekbone, smiling tenderly. “Let’s go to sleep. I’m suddenly eager for morning to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shmoop attacks! Sort of like Mars Attacks! But with fewer Martians, and more schmoop! And smut! Schmut? Smoot? Also butt stuff! I need a vacation! Haha, but seriously, this story is eating my brain.
> 
> Brain rot aside, I must acknowledge that you, people of AO3 and Suits/Marveydom, are all wonderful, beautiful people, and I thank you so very much for taking this ride with me. I'm planning one more chapter after this one, to finish the story off. And then … let S6 begin! Oh, yeah, and finishmyeffingWIPsokaywhatever.

When Harvey woke up, his first, hazy thought was that something felt different. It took only half a second to figure out what that something was. A male body, long and lean, dense with muscles and giving off heat like a furnace, was tangled in the sheets next to him.

_Mike._

Harvey smiled and yawned, stretching out to run a foot down Mike’s leg. He stopped abruptly when his big toe encountered the hard plastic of Mike’s ankle monitor. Mike stirred restlessly, turning in Harvey's arms to rest his head on his chest.

"Morning," Mike mumbled. He yawned, rubbing his face against Harvey's chest, and then his head came up and his eyes popped open. "Morning," he repeated, a wide, lascivious grin splitting his face. "I seem to remember certain promises being made involving morning."

"Far be it from me to dispute your perfect powers of recall." Harvey smiled affectionately down at him. "Coffee first, or …?"

He’d been kidding about the coffee, and was happy when Mike shook his head. "Coffee later." He planted a kiss on Harvey's breastbone, moved lower and sucked and nibbled on a nipple.

Harvey shivered, groaning. He placed a hand on the back of Mike's head, encouraging him. Mike moved across to his other nipple, while his hand crept under the covers to palm Harvey's cock.

"Wakey, wakey," Mike whispered.

Harvey laughed breathlessly, thrusting up into Mike's hand. "Oh, we're most definitely awake." He marveled at how quickly he hardened under Mike's touch. "Grab the supplies."

Mike leaned across him and reached for the drawer in the nightstand. He opened it, and took a moment to stare at the quantity of condoms. "Just how sexually active are you?" he asked.

"Shut up. Those were a joke gift of sorts from a client. I didn't see any reason to let them go to waste. If it puts your mind at ease, I've only used like two of them in the past year." He didn't add that he hoped that eventually he and Mike wouldn't need them, and he could get rid of them.

"Two? That actually makes me a little sad for you."

Mike would probably feel even more sad if he knew that both occasions had involved Scottie. Two drunken mistakes. Thankfully, he'd learned his lesson after the second time. "Maybe less talking," he suggested. "You're kind of killing the mood."

Mike selected a condom, and set it and the bottle of lube on the bed. He bit his lip and gave Harvey an apologetic, slightly embarrassed look. "I've never actually done this before for someone else."

"I can take care of it myself, if you want."

Mike's cheeks pinkened. "That's … an image. Raincheck? This time, I want to." He pulled the sheets out of the way. "Could you open up your legs for me?"

Harvey bent his knees and planted his feet on the mattress. He felt exposed, but knew from experience how heady the view could be from the other side. Mike seemed momentarily transfixed, but recovered enough to open the lube and coat his fingers. He gave Harvey's face a quick glance, and then he parted Harvey's cheeks and rubbed at his entrance. Harvey hummed his approval, pushing his feet as far to the side as he comfortably could in order to give Mike better access.

When Mike's fingertip breached him for the first time, Harvey flinched and gave a low grunt. Mike froze.

"It's okay," Harvey reassured him. "It's just been a while. Keep going."

"I don’t want to hurt you." Mike’s voice was strained, and a check of his expression showed worry fighting with arousal.

"You're not. If you do, I'll tell you." Mike still didn't move. Harvey reached down and touched his arm. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. Just … bad memories."

"We can stop if you want to."

Mike appeared to be giving that serious consideration, but then he looked up to meet Harvey's gaze and gave him a soft smile. "No. I want this." He moved his finger shallowly, in and out, inching further each time. "Jesus, you feel amazing, and that's just my finger."

Mike pushed deeper, massaging Harvey's inner walls, making him shift and squirm on the bed. "Ah. God, Mike. Yeah. Right there." His hands closed around the crumpled sheets, grasping tightly. Mike squirted out more lube, and added another finger. Harvey's hips jerked, rising up to meet him.

No words were exchanged for several minutes as Mike worked his fingers in and out, patiently opening Harvey up. For his part, Harvey was nearly as turned on by the intense look of concentration on Mike's face as he was by the feel of his fingers plunging in and out, and the occasional wisp of warm breath against his thigh. He loved the sensation of being taken care of, and of letting someone else do all the work for once.

"That's good, baby," he murmured, resting a hand on Mike's head. "I'm ready anytime you are."

Mike didn't respond right away. He kept on finger-fucking Harvey, dropping kisses on his belly, and thighs, and licking his cock like a lollipop.

"Fuck me," Harvey whispered, surprising himself with the intensity in his voice. He wanted Mike inside him, and he wanted it _now._ "I need you. _Please …_ "

Mike pulled his fingers free and wiped them on the sheets. "Okay." He gave a low laugh. "God. I'm shaking." He held out a hand for Harvey to see, and he grabbed it, holding him tightly.

"It's just us," said Harvey. "You and me. Like it was always meant to be. Come up here and kiss me." He lowered his legs and tugged Mike's hand, helping him to crawl up Harvey's body until they were face to face. Harvey cradled his head in both hands and pulled him down. Mike went willingly, licking across Harvey's lips, and into his mouth, filling him up and moaning in the back of his throat. Mike's hard cock poked him in the stomach, smearing him with pre-come. Harvey broke away first. "I want you inside me," he urged.

Breathing hard, Mike nodded his agreement. He sat back on his heels and reached for the condom packet, ripping it open with hands which still visibly shook. His cock bobbed not far from Harvey's face, and he had to hold himself back from mouthing it. With an effort, he changed his focus to Mike's hands, noting that he was having difficulty extracting the condom.

"Here," said Harvey gently, "let me." He took the packet from Mike, removed the condom, and rolled it carefully down Mike's cock. "Pass me the lube." He smeared a good sized glob on his palm, wrapped his hand around Mike's cock and stroked up and down.

Mike bit his lip, and his eyes rolled up as he groaned. "That's good," he breathed. "Enough." Harvey let go, and Mike breathed in and out a few times, regaining control of himself.

Moving wordlessly, as if they'd done this a thousand times before, they repositioned themselves with Mike kneeling between Harvey's spread legs. Bending lower, he settled Harvey's legs over his hips and set the head of his cock at his entrance. He pushed in, perhaps an inch, and stopped. Harvey fought the urge to tense up, ordering himself to relax and let Mike in. He gave Mike a reassuring smile. Mike pushed again, and Harvey's body fought him for maybe a second or two. Then Mike surged forward, filling Harvey up, and his mind whispered, _oh god yesssss._

"Is that okay, Harvey? Are you okay?" Mike peered up at him anxiously.

He could feel the pulses of Mike’s heart through his cock, buried inside of him. "Better then okay. _God._ It's perfect. Go on. Move. Fuck me hard as you want." He reached back and grasped the bottom of the headboard, ceding all control to Mike.

Mike's movements remained tentative, at first. He eased off, slid back in, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Harvey's face. With his third thrust, he bit his lip and moaned as if in pain. Harvey lifted his hips to meet his next careful surge forward. "Shit," Mike bit out. "If you keep that up, I'm not gonna last."

Harvey realized he'd been misreading Mike's hesitance. Now that he examined him more closely, he noted his harsh, panting breaths, and the perspiration that dampened his chest and forehead. Harvey hurried to reassure him. "It's okay. Really, really okay. I doubt I'll last long either."

Harvey jerked his hips again, and this time Mike got the message. He shifted his grip and began to move in quick, sharp stabs, his muscular ass and thighs driving his thrusts. Harvey took a thousand mental pictures, and then his eyes nearly rolled back in his head when Mike sat back and adjusted his angle. Keeping one hand clamped to the headboard, Harvey wrapped his other hand around his own cock and stroked, fast and hard. He came explosively seconds later, cursing and spilled over his hand.

As Harvey shivered with aftershocks, Mike slammed into him, over and over, until he finally paused, head back, neck tendons prominent, and his expression one of savage joy. He gazed down at Harvey, gasping his name, and shuddered violently, again and again. Then he fell forward, into Harvey's arms, and wept.

"Hey," whispered Harvey, touching the back of his head, "what's this?" He dropped a kiss on Mike's hair and stroked his back.

They lay like that for a time, still joined. Finally, Mike lifted his head and gave Harvey a watery smile. He pulled out, disposed of the condom, and sat down on the edge of the bed, wiping at the moisture streaking his cheeks. "Sorry about that." He chuckled weakly. "I promise I don't do that every time after sex."

"Are you okay?" Harvey didn't see how anyone could not be okay after coming that hard. He felt pretty damn great himself.

Mike stretched out next to Harvey, turning on his side to face him. "Am I okay? My God, you have no idea." He laid a hand on Harvey's waist. "That was incredible. It's … it just finally hit me, all at once, that I'm really, truly home." Setting his chin on Harvey's shoulder, he mouthed the side of his neck for several seconds. "Let's hit the shower. I'm going to cook you an amazing breakfast."

Harvey rolled into him, tangling their legs together and claiming Mike's mouth for a slow, tender kiss. When he lifted his head again, the words _I love you_ had travelled from his heart, to his brain, and to the tip of his tongue. He tasted them, causing his heart to beat faster, and then carefully swallowed them back down again.

Not yet, but soon.

 

******

 

After their first night together, Mike moved his things – and himself – into Harvey's bedroom, and stayed. Life continued. During his days, he worked for Vanessa, and completed his house arrest obligations, and cooked elaborate dinners for Harvey. He spent his nights in bed with Harvey, relearning trust, and pleasure, and joy. Thankfully, he had always been an exceptionally fast learner.

What had seemed an oppressive stretch of six months of electronic monitoring had shifted overnight to a minor inconvenience. He couldn't leave, but he no longer wanted to.

Vanessa delivered his first paycheck in person – or rather his first direct deposit notice. He surprised her by wrapping her up in an enthusiastic hug, as he fought tears. "Thank you so much," he whispered, even as he earmarked part of the funds as repayment for Audrey, the waitress who had shown him such kindness on his first days of freedom. He hadn't forgotten about her, or the Clover Diner, and decided that the first thing he would do when the ankle monitor was removed, was visit Audrey to pay her back in person.  

Christmas and New Year's passed quietly. Mike and Harvey had agreed on no gifts, but Harvey still got him beautiful new watch, and Mike splurged on a new set of sheets with the highest thread count he could afford. Then he fucked Harvey on those sheets, while he wore only his new watch, and his ankle monitor.

At the end of January, Harvey arrived home one night to inform Mike that he'd received a phone call from Gwen Atwood, the prosecutor from Mike's arrest. The undercover operation which Mike had declined had gone on without him, yielding a number of arrests, and Mike was being placed on the list of possible witnesses. Since he'd agreed to this when he took the deal, he was obliged to comply.

"Will we have to go back to Connecticut?" asked Mike over dinner.

"No. The arrests were made here in the city, and that's where they're going to trial."

Mike frowned down at his vegetable lasagna. "Maybe I won't get called. It doesn't seem like I'd have much to add. They caught them red-handed, right?" He felt zero loyalty toward Viking, but the notion of testifying against him didn't sit well.

"We'll just have to wait and see."

They waited until mid-February, when a process server showed up at the front door and handed Mike a subpoena. The trial was set to start in a week, and he was in fact being called in to testify.

That night, Harvey held him more closely than usual. Mike wondered if he'd noted, as Mike had, the location of the trial. Since it was a federal case, it was being tried in the federal courthouse, in the same room where Mike's conviction and sentence had been handed down four years ago. It shouldn't be a big deal, but it felt like one. At least he'd have Harvey by his side this time, and not viewing the proceedings from the back of the room.

***

Mike followed all of the necessary procedures, reporting the subpoena to his probation officer, and receiving permission to leave home for the trial. At his weekly appointment with Dr. Warner, he expressed some of his fears.

"I know it's not rational, Doc, but the thought of putting myself in that same room, probably in front of the same judge for all I know … It's freaking me out, more than a little bit."

The doctor seemed to consider this for a minute or two. "Why don't you tell me the worst thing you believe could happen. The very worst."

Mike thought it over. "That the last four years were all a dream, and my four year sentence is only now beginning?" Dr. Warner tipped his head down and stared at Mike over his reading glasses. "Okay. Sorry. Seriously? I suppose it would be if they decided to revoke my Connecticut deal and throw me back in jail."

"And how likely is that?"

"Not very. Not at all. At least, not with Harvey as my attorney."

"So try again. What are you afraid of?"

Mike bit back a groan. "It's the same prosecutor. Anita Fucking Gibbs. She hates me. And … and she'll see me, and she'll know."

"Know what?"

"That she was right about me all along."

Dr. Warner's sharp gaze remained focused on Mike, causing him to squirm in his chair. "Right about what? About you committing fraud? But you did actually do that, correct?"

"That I was born a loser, lived a loser's life, and will die a loser."

"Am I a loser?"

"What?"

Dr. Warner plucked his glasses off and leaned forward in his chair. "I'm an ex-con. Like you. Or maybe not so like you. I mean, even though you were breaking the law, you did try to do some good for your clients. Me? I waved a loaded gun in the face of a nice, older Korean couple and threatened to blow their heads off. And then I cleaned out all of their hard-earned receipts for the day and celebrated with pizza and beer. Knowing all that about me, will you continue to come here every week and think to yourself what a loser he is?"

"Well, yeah, but it has more to do with those jackets you insist on wearing."

"Mike … "

"Seriously. You can afford better. I can hook you up with a great tailor."

"I know that you know that you're exhibiting classic deflection right now. Am I loser?"

"No,” Mike conceded. You're not."

The doctor sighed through his nose, sounding impatient. "Follow that out to its logical conclusion. I am not defined by my past poor choices. I made something better of myself. Therefore … Come on, Mike. I want to hear you say the words out loud."

He rolled his eyes. "Therefore … I am not a loser." He spoke the words fast, and almost too low to hear.

"Christ. That was pathetic. Try again, this time with feeling."

Mike drew in a deep gulp of air, expelling it in a gusty sigh. "I am not a loser."

"Again."

Evidently, Dr. Warner intended to harass him until he got it right. Mike took a moment to compose himself, and to really think about what he was saying, and what the words meant. "I'm not a loser." To his own ears, he sounded surprised. He tried again. "I am not a loser. I made mistakes, sure, but I was doing the best I could. I needed to take care of Trevor, and then I needed to take care of Grammy, and when help came – when _hope_ came – in the form of Harvey and his job offer, I thought that fate had just handed me the answer to all of my problems. I made the wrong choice, but I made it for the right reasons."

Mike's gaze slid away from Dr. Warner's, and he addressed his next words to the floor. "I am not a fucking loser, and Anita Gibbs can suck it."

A chuckle from Dr. Warner. "And you were doing so well. I'll take it, I guess. That's our time for today. But listen, if you need a little extra support this week, don't hesitate to call me. Preferably not after midnight, if you can help it."

When Mike didn't move immediately, the doctor touched a finger to his knee. "Hey. You okay?"

A slow, tentative smile broke out on Mike's face. "Yeah. I think so." He felt lighter, more optimistic, and less inclined to freak out over the impending trial. If he wasn't convinced that Dr. Warner would accuse him of "classic transference," he might have gone in for a hug. And when had he become such a prolific hugger, anyway?

Instead, he said, "Thanks, Doc," as sincerely as he could, and stood up to go home.

 

******

 

"Tomorrow's the day," said Harvey, crawling into bed beside Mike. "You ready for this?"

Was he? "As I'll ever be," replied Mike. He placed a pillow behind his back and sat up against the headboard. "Speaking of being ready, there's something I've been wanting to ask you for a while."

"And? So? Ask me."

Mike stared down at his hands, picking imaginary dirt out from underneath one fingernail. "I've been thinking, a lot, about this. And like I said, I think I'm ready."

"For?"

He forced himself to look up, so he could gauge Harvey's reaction. "For you to fuck me." No immediate reaction. "Um. If you want to."

As if his brain had belatedly caught up with Mike's words, Harvey's pupils dilated, darkening his eyes. "Of course I want to. Are you sure about this?"

Mike held out his hand, palm down, and waggled it back and forth. "Reasonably."

"Why?"

He'd hoped they could avoid a protracted discussion, but apparently Harvey could be just as persistently inquisitive as Mike's therapist. He sighed. "Because it's something I used to enjoy so much. I've been getting my life back, one piece at a time. I want this part back. I don't want to be held prisoner to what those animals did to me. And I don’t want you to be held prisoner to me being held prisoner to …" He waved his hand around, growing frustrated. "Do you see?"

Harvey kissed his shoulder. "I see. And it would be my utmost pleasure. Obviously. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"If you experience even the slightest doubt, or hesitancy, you tell me immediately and I'll stop. Mike? Say yes, or we wait."

"Yes. I want this. Please?"

"Of course."

An amused snort escaped Mike. "First time I ever had to work so hard to convince someone to fuck me. So … how do you want me?"

"Just like that, for now." Harvey retrieved the lube from the nightstand. They'd stopped using condoms after New Year's when both had been tested and passed with flying colors.

Mike bent his knees and set his feet as far apart as he could. He could feel shadows from his past trying to intrude on his thoughts, but kept them at bay by focusing every bit of his concentration on the beautiful man kneeling between his legs.

"Here's my hand," murmured Harvey. The words were accompanied by a waft of warm breath against his inner thigh. Harvey brushed his fingers where his breath had just been, sending a shiver up Mike's spine. "How's that baby? Is that good?"

"Yeah," he breathed.

Harvey's palm settled on his thigh, not restraining, just resting there while his other hand, fingers slick with lube, touched his puckered entrance. Mike flinched and let out a slow breath.

"It's just me," whispered Harvey.

He waited until Mike stilled, and tried again. This time, Mike was ready, counting slowly to three as he breathed in, and again as he breathed out. Harvey’s touch remained achingly slow, and gentle and careful. When the tip of his index finger finally breached his entrance, Mike touched the back of Harvey's head, lightly massaging his scalp. Harvey looked up at him and gifted him a smile so sweet that Mike's heart felt like it could crack in two, or perhaps leap right out of his chest. He smiled back and gave a short nod.

"Continue?" asked Harvey.

"Continue."

His finger circled shallowly, and pushed further into Mike. Memories of hot pleasure warred with memories of pain and terror. _Just breathe,_ he told himself. _Keep breathing in and out, and it will be okay._ Harvey's finger disappeared all the way inside of him. Mike could see him, could clearly see that this was Harvey, and _ohgod_ it felt good. He'd forgotten how good it could feel. He relaxed and let out a low moan, causing Harvey to pause.

"Keep going," Mike urged. "Give me more." He lifted his hips to meet Harvey's gentle thrusts. Harvey added a second finger and fucked in and out of Mike, who quietly lost his mind. Then he not so quietly lost his mind when Harvey found his prostate. _Hello, old friend._ "Oh god. Okay. That's good. I think I'm good to go.”

Harvey must have heard him, but he gave no outward indication, continuing with his slow, torturous preparation, until he had Mike writhing and moaning and pleading with him to get on with it. Finally, Harvey removed his fingers and wiped them on the sheets. As he sat back on his heels and lubed up his hard, blood-dark cock, he asked in a strained voice, "Would you like to be on top?"

Mike couldn't speak for several seconds. The sight of Harvey with his hand on his own cock, stroking slowly, robbed him of speech and coherent thought. Harvey paused, gazing at him expectantly, and the gears whirred back to life. "Uh. No. Not this time." He scooted down the bed, and lifted his hips for Harvey to wedge a pillow underneath them. With knees bent, he watched Harvey line himself up and begin a slow push inside.

The look on Harvey's face was so intent, and tender, and concerned, that any lingering fear Mike had simply shredded and dissolved. It was only him and Harvey, who had continued his forward motion, and Mike was so stretched and full, but it was Harvey inside him, and it was amazing. Mike smiled back at him, and Harvey slid all the way home. He lifted his legs to wrap around Harvey's back, thrusting up to demonstrate his readiness. He felt Harvey jump when his ankle monitor bumped his tailbone, and Mike lowered that leg back to the mattress.

Without another word, Harvey began to move, joining Mike in a slow, rocking rhythm, neither in a rush, both happy to let the heat build gradually between them. And build it did. Mike clutched Harvey's shoulders, holding tight despite the sweat that dampened Harvey's skin. With eyes slitted nearly shut, and his lower lip caught between his teeth, Mike sped his movements, and felt Harvey immediately catch the new rhythm.

After that, it became a thrusting, bouncing, bed-jarring, wall-pounding race to the finish. Mike reached between them and jacked himself off, his breathless curses mingling with Harvey's. As his spine liquefied, and he came with a shout, he felt Harvey stiffen and freeze, hands grasping Mike's ass so hard he would probably leave bruises, shuddering and shaking together with Mike. He leaned closer to capture Mike's lips in a rough, sloppy kiss, tongue jammed in his mouth, his animal grunts vibrating Mike's skull as he spilled inside of him.

Eventually, their aftershocks subsided, and Harvey laid his head on Mike's shoulder, mouthing and tonguing his sweat-damp skin. He pulled out, looking every bit as regretful as Mike felt at the separation. Neither moved for a long time, listening to one another's gasping breaths and pounding hearts slow and return to normal.

Feathering his fingertips across Mike's hip, Harvey murmured against his neck, "You know I love you, right?"

It had seemed so obvious that Mike had believed it went without saying. But now Harvey was saying it, and the words ignited something inside of him, not a conflagration, but a steadily burning light, something clear and pure to guide him home if he was ever lost again.

"I knew. I know." He didn't want to cry again. It was becoming downright embarrassing. But he sniffed once or twice just the same. "I love you too, Harvey. I've loved you since the first time I saw you, and I'll never stop loving you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter ...

Mike was having the best kind of dream.  Wet, warm suction encompassed his hardening cock, and soft hair tickled his thighs.  As the fog of sleep dissipated, he realized that it was no dream.  Harvey had his mouth wrapped around Mike's cock, suckling gently, as if he was prepared to stay there for hours. 

"Ungh," said Mike, unable to remember any actual words in that moment.  He cradled Harvey's skull with his palms and wriggled restlessly underneath him as Harvey's tongue came out to play, dragging roughly up a vein up the underside, finding a sensitive spot to abrade repeatedly, and then flicking in and out of his slit .  Moaning Harvey's name, Mike finally gave in to the urge and thrust up.  Harvey swallowed him completely, and a series of cursed spilled from Mike's lips. 

The delicious torture continued for several minutes.  Mike might have worried that they were going to be late to court – if he'd possessed the ability to think at all.  He threaded his fingers through Harvey's hair, tugging in time to the rhythmic, shallow lift of his hips.  Eventually, Harvey raised his head and rasped out, "Come in my mouth," before resuming. 

_Oh god yes don't mind if I do._ Three more quick thrusts, and then Mike was gasping and spilling inside of Harvey's mouth.  Harvey swallowed and swallowed, like a champ, not stopping until Mike pulled his hair hard, signaling him to stop.  Harvey lifted his head, letting Mike's spent cock slide out from between his shiny lips, and smiled at Mike.  He knelt up, shifted his weight, and lay full length on Mike so that he could gift him with a slow, dirty kiss.   

"That was ..." said Mike, panting.  "Okay, so.  Just.  Good morning.  I mean, what the what?" 

Harvey laughed softly.  "I thought you might require some calming down this morning."  He waited two beats.  "Did it work?" 

"If speech-challenged and comatose passes for calm, then yes, I'd say you succeeded." 

Before Mike could offer to return the favor, Harvey had grabbed his hand and pulled him up and off of the bed.  "We need to hit the shower.  Ray will be downstairs in ten minutes." 

*** 

If Mike had believed that wearing his good suit to court would serve to armor him against all of the ugly, turbulent emotions stirred up by his visit, he was mistaken.   Despite the most excellent wake up blow job in the history of ever, his anxiety built on the drive to the courthouse, and as Ray pulled up to the curb to let them out, Mike had begun to perspire, and was close to hyperventilating. 

Harvey grabbed Mike’s hand before he could open the car door.  “Calm down, sweetheart.  Just remember, you’re not the one on trial this time.  All you have to do is get up there and tell the truth.” 

Mike nodded, trying to appear as if he believed him.   With Anita Gibbs in the courtroom, and Judge Berkley presiding, it already felt like the worst sort of old home week.  This was just another thing he needed to get through, he told himself.  Another consequence of his own actions.  He gave Harvey’s hand a squeeze, and ignoring Ray in the driver's front seat, he leaned in and gave Harvey a kiss.  “Let’s go put some crooks behind bars.” 

They got out and went into the courthouse, weaving their way through a thick crowd of people.  The elevator delivered them to the fourth floor, into a wide, marble-floored hallway.  Here, the crowd had broken down into small clumps, lawyers conferring with clients, and family or friends offering support to their loved ones.  With their shoe heels clacking in unison, Mike and Harvey walked down the hall and entered the courtroom side by side.  They found seats in the back corner.  

Mike could see Viking – Lucius – at the defendants table, along with a man he recognized as Eldon Landreau from New Hope House.  Apparently the feds had been right about that connection.   Mike’s gaze tracked to the left, and picked out Gibbs, deep in conversation with a man in a cheap suit, who was probably the public defender.  After a few minutes of intense discussion, Gibbs returned to her table, and Cheap Suit took his seat with Viking and Landreau. 

The bailiff announced the judge and everyone stood up.  Mike went cold inside as he viewed the man who had sent him into hell at Altona, all because of Dana Scott’s unhinged jealousy.  He scanned the courtroom for any sign of Harvey’s ex, but she had not put in an appearance today.  Of course, as Harvey had pointed out, it was not Mike on trial today, so why would she care? 

The case was announced, and when the defense attorney was queried, it was revealed that a plea deal had been reached with the prosecution.  Viking and Landreau were declared guilty, given reduced sentences, the gavel came down, and that was it.  It was over. 

“Well, shit.  That was anti-climactic,” commented Mike, taking his first easy breath since the ride over.  The judge was already leaving the room.  The next case wouldn’t begin for another hour. 

Harvey touched Mike’s arm.  “Wait for me here.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

Confused, Mike watched Harvey stand up and leave the courtroom.  What was that about?  The defendants were led away.  If either of them had spotted Mike, neither gave any indication.   When Anita Gibbs marched past, clutching her briefcase, Mike fought the urge to slump down and attempt to make himself invisible.  This proved unnecessary.  Gibbs’ gaze never wavered from the exit.  She was probably already on the hunt for more evil doers to harass. 

Yes, all things considered, the agonies of anticipatory stress Mike had endured for two weeks had been for nothing.  At least he’d been permitted out in the world, and as a bonus, he’d gotten to spend a little extra time with Harvey.  Now he could go home, finish the skip traces Vanessa had emailed to him yesterday afternoon, and figure out what to do with two pounds of baby bok choy.  He got out his phone to google the vegetable, and spent long minutes checking out recipes.  When Harvey had been gone for over half an hour, he began to grow concerned.  What could be keeping him? 

Harvey had told him to wait there, but attorneys and clients for the next case were filing in, and beginning to set up at the front of the room.  Mike had zero interest in watching another legal drama unfold, so he decided to text Harvey from the hallway.  He made his way to the middle aisle, turned toward the doorway, and nearly ran straight into Rachel Sanders. 

 

****** 

 

“Are you actually threatening a federal judge, Mr. Specter?”  Judge Berkley sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, lounging in his plush leather chair. 

Harvey longed to slap the smug expression from his face.  He had been kept waiting to see the judge for close to half an hour.  Worry for Mike out there alone fought with annoyance toward this corrupt, overfed asshole.  He hid both emotions, carefully crossing his legs, straightening the crease on his trousers, and flicking away an imaginary speck of lint.  “Threatening?  That’s an ugly word, your honor.  No, what I’m doing is putting you on notice.  When you sentenced Mike Ross four years ago, you used your position of power to pay back a favor you owed.  I’d say that is the opposite of impartial.” 

The judge made a scoffing noise.  “Bullshit.  Go ahead and prove it.  I’d like to see you try.” 

Harvey gave him his shark smile.  The judge’s smug expression evaporated, and he sat up a little straighter.  “No you wouldn’t,” Harvey assured him.  “You wouldn’t like it at all.  The only reason I haven’t filed charges against you yet, is because Mike has stated his desire to put this all behind him.  Regardless, if I catch even a hint – the merest whiff – of wrongdoing coming out of your courtroom, you’ll be brought up on charges so fast it will make your head spin.” 

“What charges?” 

“I assume you’ve heard of Title 18, Part I, Chapter 11?” 

Another scoff from the judge, which Harvey guessed was mostly bluster.  “Corruption?  Again, you’d have to prove it.  And what judge is going to rule against one of their own?  Keep dreaming.” 

“It’s not a good climate for corrupt judges.  I wouldn’t stop at this one case.  I’d use all of the resources at my disposal to dig up every single sleazy ruling you handed down.  And I’d make sure the media knew all of the juicy details.  Is that really the sort of attention you want?  Especially a man with your political ambitions?” 

“Get the hell out of my chambers before I’m forced to call security.” 

Harvey was happy enough to comply.  He’d made his point, and it had hit its target squarely, if Berkley’s enraged expression was anything to go by.   Since he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, he went to find Mike. 

He found him in the hallway.  The woman with him had her back to Harvey, but he recognized the dark fall of hair:  Rachel Sanders, formerly Rachel Zane.  He experienced a brief moment of piercing jealousy.  In the next instant, he remembered last night, being buried deep inside of Mike, moving together in perfect harmony.  How could what Mike had once had with Rachel compare with that? 

He halted his forward progress.  Whatever the two of them were discussing was none of his business.  If Mike chose to share it with him later, he’d listen.  For now, he leaned against the wall just out of earshot and waited. 

 

****** 

 

“Mike!”  Rachel sounded shocked and breathless and perhaps a tiny bit panicked.  Her gaze traveled rapidly up and down his body, no doubt noting his attire.  Her brow wrinkled in confusion.  “What are you doing here?” 

As if by unspoken, mutual agreement, they walked out of the courtroom together, into the hallway. 

“I was called as a witness in a case, but it didn’t go to trial.  They pled out.  And you?” 

“I’m co-counsel in the next case up.”  Her lips crimped together as she appeared to gather her wits.  He could almost see her concocting a big, steaming pile of fake-sincerity to direct his way.  “How are you?  Has it been four years already?” 

“Three years and eight months,” he answered automatically.   “I’ve been out since September.  That would be … let’s see … right around your two-year wedding anniversary.  So I guess congratulations are in order?” 

He wasn’t proud of how satisfied the look of extreme discomfort on her pretty, lying face made him.  But it did.  When she didn’t reply, he twisted the knife some more.  “How is Logan, by the way?  I hope you’re keeping close tabs on him.  You know what they say:  once a cheater, always a cheater.  But wait, I guess that would make two of you.  Dicey.” 

He’d made her angry, but he didn't care.  Her eyes darkened, and her mouth took on an ugly twist.  “And once a felon, always a felon.  That’s right.  I heard about your arrest in Connecticut.  How’s that ankle monitor working out for you?” 

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me."  He clasped a hand over his heart.  "I'm touched.” 

She shook her head, rolling her eyes and practically growling deep in her chest.  “I’m not – I didn’t – you know what?  I’m not having this conversation with you.  I have a client to defend.”   

When she pivoted on her stiletto heel, she spotted Harvey several yards away.  Mike had seen him as well. 

“Oh, look who’s here.” sneered Rachel.  “I should have known your boyfriend wouldn’t be far away.”  She turned back to Mike to point a finger in his face, which he was tempted to bite down on.  “I don’t know what you two have going on, and I don’t care.  But before you call me unfaithful again, take a closer look at yourself.  You always chose Harvey over me.  Every.  Single.  Time.”  She gave her hair an angry flip.  “Even if you hadn’t been caught, it never would have worked out between us, because our queen sized bed was getting awfully goddamned crowded.” 

She spun one more time, and Mike was a little impressed, in spite of himself, that she managed to maintain her equilibrium as she marched past Harvey into the courtroom.  He heard Harvey mutter something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like, “I said good day, sir.” 

Their eyes met, and Harvey gave him a sympathetic wince.  “Sorry I took so long.” 

Mike shrugged.  "That was nowhere near as satisfying as I thought it would be." 

Harvey gave a sour sounding laugh.  "It rarely is." 

They walked slowly towards one another, and Mike’s heart thumped faster.  Who gave a shit about Rachel when he had this?  “Where'd you go?” 

Harvey wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulders and guided him towards the elevators.  “I’ll tell you in the car.  You ready to get out of here?” 

“Fuck yes.” 

 

****** 

 

**Three Months Later**  

 

Mike hadn’t worn socks with his sneakers today, in anticipation of this moment.  He settled himself back into the seat next to Harvey, in the back of the town car, and lifted his pant leg to show Harvey and Ray his pale, unadorned ankle.   “The surgery was successful,” he quipped.  “And the patient is definitely going to live.”  Starting with dinner out with Harvey tonight.  In public.  His house arrest was officially over and the chafed spot on his ankle was one hundred percent monitor-free. 

After congratulating Mike, Ray turned his attention to driving the car while Harvey issued his own congratulations, in the form of a prolonged tonsil bath.  Mike broke away once to say, “Ray, did you remember – ” 

“Yep.  We’re on our way there now.” 

The sweet, sloppy kiss continued until the car pulled to a stop half a block down from the _Clover Diner._    

“I won't take long,” said Mike.  “I know you need to get to work.” 

“You sure you don’t want to come in today?” 

Vanessa had promoted Mike and bumped him up to full time.   Starting tomorrow, he would be taking over her “satellite” office at _Specter Law._    Mike had mixed feelings about that.  On the one hand, he was thrilled to be working in the same building as Harvey again.  On the other hand, he still remembered Scottie’s comments about Mike ruining Harvey’s reputation by associating with him.  Harvey had assured him repeatedly that Scottie was no longer a problem.  She had moved back to London, having evidently decided to lead her own life and leave them alone. 

“I’m sure,” Mike answered. 

“I could go in there with you.”  Harvey indicated the restaurant. 

“Nah.  I need to do this myself.” 

He got out and headed toward the front door.  As he made his way down the sidewalk, he passed the alley where he’d been mugged.  He still did not have a clear recollection of that night.  Curious to view the scene of the crime, he paused and examined the alley, walking a few steps into it.  The restaurant’s dumpster stood against the back of the building, on his right.  A sign posted to the side of the dumpster caught his attention, and he stepped closer.  When he began to read it, his throat closed up with emotion. 

_"_ _Attention:  to anyone searching our dumpster for something to eat, please come inside where we will treat you to a free meal, a hot drink, and a friendly space to rest your feet for a time._ _"_  

Mike realized he had his hand over his mouth.  Tears spilled over his lower lids and tracked down his cheeks at this unexpected sign of kindness in what, for the longest time, had seemed to him a harsh and unkind world.  He wiped the moisture away, taking a couple of minutes to regain control of himself, and then returned to the sidewalk and entered the front door of the diner. 

He’d hoped to catch Audrey before she went off shift, and he was not disappointed.  She stood behind the cash register, finishing up a transaction.  When she caught sight of him, she slapped change into the customer’s waiting hand, slammed the register drawer, and was in front of Mike in half a dozen long strides.  She set a hand on his shoulder and took a close look at him. 

“My gosh, Mike, I’ve been worried about you.  Last time I saw you … “  She pressed her lips together and gave her head a brisk shake.  “Why didn’t you ever stop back in?” 

“I’m sorry.  I was … I actually wasn’t well for a while.  Then I went and got myself in more trouble, and I was confined to home.  I just now finished with that, and this was the first place I came.”  He handed her the envelope he had prepared.  “To give you this.” 

Seeming reluctant, she took the envelope from him.  “And what’s this?” 

“The money I owe you.  I said I’d pay you back, didn’t I?” 

“And I said it wasn’t necessary.” 

“I got a job.  I can afford it now.  In fact …”  He dug out his wallet and grabbed the wad of bills inside.  “I want you to have this too.” 

Audrey shook her head.  “Mike, I did what I did because it was right, not for any reward.” 

“Then take it to help pay for those free meals you’re handing out.  That’s right.  I saw the sign out back.  That’s amazing.  You’re amazing.” 

Her cheeks had gone pink.  “I had the devil of a time convincing the owner to go along with it.  It’s worked out pretty good, though.  And it’s because of you, you know.” 

“Me?” 

“Well, yes.  No need to look so surprised.  I figured if there was one person like you trying to make it under tough circumstances, there had to be dozens, or hundreds, or thousands more.  I can’t do a lot, but I can do this one thing.  So … “ 

Mike grabbed her shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek, ignoring her shocked gasp.  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I love you, Audrey.” 

She narrowed her eyes, trying to appear affronted, but he could see that she was fighting a smile. 

“How much do you need to keep it going?” he asked her.  “I’m going to send you money every month.  How much is this costing you?” 

She laughed.  “See that jar by the cash register?  We were getting plenty, just from our customers.  Then some fool posted a picture of that sign on Facebook, or so I’m told.  Now we get checks and envelopes of cash from all over the country.  If you want to add yours to the pile, that’s fine.  I’d rather you stop by for breakfast every now and then, and catch me up on your life.  You can stick a little something in the jar when you do.” 

“I’ll be sure to do that.”  He hesitated.  “I’d stay for breakfast now, but I’ve got someone waiting for me outside.” 

Audrey arched an eyebrow.  “It’s not that Harvey fellow is it?” 

“Uh, yes, actually.” 

She tapped a finger to the side of her head.  “I had a hunch about that.  Bring him in with you next time you stop by.” 

“I will.  See you around, Audrey.”  He detoured past the cash register on his way out and stuffed the money in the jar. 

 

****** 

 

“How did it go?” asked Harvey, when Mike climbed back into the car and slumped against him, resting his head on Harvey’s shoulder. 

“Start the paperwork.” 

Harvey gave an uncertain laugh.  “For …?” 

“I want Audrey to adopt me.” 

“What brought that on?” 

Mike licked the shell of Harvey’s ear, making him shiver.  “She's a saint, basically." 

"A saint, huh?  Maybe I should add myself to that paperwork." 

"Forget it.  With the things I want to do to you, I'd prefer that we're not related." 

"Are you sure about that?" 

"Sure I'm -- "  Mike froze and lifted his head, giving Harvey a sharp look.  "Did you just – ?  What are you saying?" 

Harvey gave an elegant one-shouldered shrug.  "We'll talk about it later.  Right now," he growled lowly in Mike's ear, "I want to see if I can make you come before Ray gets you home."  Only partially shielded by his coat, he ground the heel of his hand against Mike's crotch, stroking him through his jeans. 

"Ah.  Ah hah," gasped Mike.  "Better behave yourself, or Ray's going to drive us into a fire hydrant."  Despite his best intentions, he bucked up against Harvey's palm. 

"I'm not worried.  Ray's an excellent driver."  Harvey unzipped Mike and thrust a hand inside his pants. 

"Jesus.  _Fuck_.  Sorry Ray."     

“No worries, Mike,” said Ray.  “Challenge accepted.”  He turned up the music, raised the divider, and stomped on the gas, heading for home. 

 

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: 
> 
> Yes, I stole that restaurant sign idea from a story that has made the rounds on social media. It’s my own wording, but the same concept (except, I think the real restaurant specified PB&J’s for the free meal).
> 
> Title 18 of the US Code is a real thing, but I’m not one hundred percent sure that the part Harvey mentions applies to a corrupt judge. (This is where the “baloney” part of Beloni comes into play.)
> 
> I left out the part where Mike goes on to volunteer for all sorts of things to help other ex-cons with re-entry issues, but that’s sort of a given, right? RIGHT???!? (oh sweet baby jesus, please do not make me write any more words … )
> 
> What’s up next? I’ve got two WIP’s left here on AO3, plus I’ve also been working on a big bang thingie I can’t really talk about yet, but which is due in October. You can expect new chapters of Found You to appear from time to time, although this will not occur on any sort of set schedule. And Discerning Mind will continue to haunt my nightmares until I can get back to it and give it my full attention. Hey, maybe I’ll have this shit all wrapped up before the end of the year. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. And stay safe out there, beautiful people of Earth.


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